Idiots Can't Catch Cold
by WikketKrikket
Summary: On a last minute run to Spain, Douglas and Martin realise something is wrong with Arthur. They're hardly far from home, but unfortunately Customs refuses to let them go back while potentially carrying the flu virus. Stranded in a foreign country with a sick Arthur and no help on hand, this is likely to be one of MJN Air's more eventful trips.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Not going to lie, this is nothing but pure bandwagon jumping. There are a lot of sick!fics out there and I'm not sure what this one has to recommend it except that it's about Arthur, and they never seem to be about Arthur; which is why I decided to write one. Also, it's non-slash, does that make it any different? XD Anyway, this is just for fun, so like Fly Away Home, it's just going to be a few short chapters updated as regularly as life will allow. Enjoy!

Also, everything I learnt about Frigiliana I learnt from Wikipedia and TripAdvisor, and everything else is made up, so anything I have wrong, please forgive me!

Disclaimer- This is purely a fanwork, by a slightly obsessive fan for the benefit of other slightly obsessive fans.

Chapter One

After being on so many flights, Arthur had well and truly mastered the art of opening the flight deck door while holding plates of food, and doing it without spilling them. In fact, Martin had marvelled at his coordination more than once, claiming 'I've never met anyone so clumsy who actually breaks so little' and Douglas had laughed and Arthur had made up his mind it was a compliment. Today, however, he noticed he had spilt some gravy onto the work surface in the galley when he had emptied out the shepherd's pie onto a plate. He'd made a mental note to clear it up before anyone saw and made his way into the flight deck.

"Food, chaps." He said. "Today it's shepherd's pie or I think this one is cottage pie. I'm not sure what the difference is."

"The difference, Arthur, is that while shepherd's pie is made with minced lamb, cottage pie is made with minced beef." Douglas said. "Although, I agree with you, if this food is up to MJN's usual standard, there probably will be very little difference."

"Oh, okay." Arthur looked down at the plates, trying to remember which was which. "Well, anyway, which do you want, Skip?" It was Martin's turn to have first choice of food.

"To be honest, Arthur, I'd quite like the cup of coffee you went to make twenty minutes ago." Martin answered. "As opposed to an evening meal, at half past three in the afternoon, when we will be at the hotel in Frigiliana in less than two hours and in plenty of time to make full and proper use of their supposedly excellent restaurant."

"Oh." Arthur said. "Um, I think I might have got a bit mixed up."

"Really?" Douglas said. "I thought perhaps you might have."

"Um, yes. But they're quite small, so… do you want them anyway?"

"Oh, go on then." Douglas gave in. "Come on, Martin, we can always just go to the restaurant later in the evening. This can be lunch."

Martin gave in surprisingly easily, which Douglas took to mean he had also missed lunch and was also starving. This flight to Spain had been extremely last minute- Carolyn had called them mid-morning and told them that a bunch of wine tasters' flight had been cancelled, and they needed to be in Spain by tonight. They had got the call just after eleven, and had just enough time to throw an overnight bag together and get down to the airfield for twelve-thirty to be in the air an hour later. The whole thing had been a mad rush and Douglas hadn't been very happy about it, but there had been upsides. For one thing, he had always wanted to visit Frigiliana, which was famous for its beauty and for its wine; wine he sadly could not permit himself to try but that would certainly go well as a sweetener to certain deals he was trying to make. Secondly, there was only one hotel in town and because of the short notice Carolyn hadn't had time to look further afield for something cheaper, which meant they would actually be staying somewhere decent for once, rather than a box room in some sort of dump-to-rent. Lastly, it was the height of summer and they were going to Spain, where Martin would undoubtedly make his already well advanced sunburn even worse, and come home looking like an enraged lobster, to Douglas' unending amusement.

Arthur passed the plates over and Douglas could immediately tell something was wrong.

"Arthur, when did you microwave these?" He asked, giving the potato a tentative poke. "It's stone cold."

"Did you actually microwave them at all?" Martin's was in no better state.

"I… I'm not sure." Arthur said.

"Oh, just get rid of them." Martin said, irritated. He really was rather hungry and Arthur's mistake with the meals had just drawn his attention to it. "Go and check on the passengers and then get ready for landing in half an hour."

"Okay." Arthur said, shamefacedly picking up the plates. "Sorry, Skip." He withdrew, looking rather miserable.

"Aww, you've upset him now." Douglas said.

"Well, if you want to eat raw cottage pie, be my guest." Martin replied, concentrating on the instruments. "I don't know what's gotten into him today. He's even worse than usual."

They were soon to find out.

ooooooooooo

By the time they reached the hotel, Martin was feeling rather guilty about being so snappy. Arthur seemed to have taken the telling-off to heart this time and was almost silent the entire taxi journey. Martin tried to make it up to him by pointing out various sights along the way, but Arthur's enthusiasm had been unusually short lived. The problem was, a sad Arthur was roughly akin to a kicked puppy, and Martin had never been able to stand it for long.

"Cheer up, Arthur." He said, as they went to check in. "Everyone makes mistakes. I'm sorry I snapped at you about it. Why don't we just try and enjoy our night here now?"

"Okay." Arthur said. "Sorry Skip." He wandered over to the desk to look at the visitor book like he always did, but with markedly less excitement than usual. Martin noticed his hands were shaking.

"Arthur." He said. "Are you alright?"

"Yes! Sorry! Yes!"

"You don't need to be sorry, Arthur, it's just… you don't look very well." Martin had to admit he was surprised. He didn't think Arthur was capable of being ill, even after consuming inhuman amounts of food. But, now that he looked properly, Arthur was a little paler than usual and there was a slight glassiness to his eyes. Nothing too bad, he hoped, but definitely coming down with something.

"I'm fine!"

"You don't look fine." Douglas said. "But I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Look, let's just check in and you can go upstairs and have a sleep. I'm sure come dinner time you'll be right as rain." Arthur meekly agreed and did just that.

He was not right as rain by dinner time. In fact, Arthur thought, he would go so far as to say he was not at all alright. He hadn't realised just how tired he was when he was on board Gerti and doing things, or when he started to fill the drawers in his hotel room, but then he had sat down on the bed to look in his bag for something, and suddenly getting up again seemed like the most impossible thing in the world. He didn't realise he had been asleep until he woke up to the sound of his door being banged on. He ignored it, nuzzling into the pillow. He liked hotel pillows. They always felt crispy on the outside and soft inside, or at least, they did in the nicer hotels that were a bit better than some of the others they stopped in. It was like resting your head on a duck, that had been wrapped inside a cooked duck. Or chicken.

Even Arthur, on reflection, didn't know what he was thinking any more.

His door knocked again, this time followed by his captain's voice saying "Arthur?", and Arthur found himself getting up. There were two people in this world he could never ignore, and they were his mum and Skipper. It did, however, take him a few attempts to get up and then walking without falling over was a bit of a challenge. Martin knocked the door again before he quite managed to get there. Finally he fell against the door with some relief, rested against it to get his breath back, and then pulled it open.

"Oh." Martin said on seeing him. "You look awful."

Arthur didn't think this was a very nice thing to say to someone, but Martin was saying it sympathetically, so it was okay. He glanced at the mirror next to his bed room door and saw himself; pale skin, red rimmed eyes like he had been crying, hair sticking up at all angles. "I do." He agreed, leaning back on the doorframe. Staying upright felt like a lot of effort. "I don't think sleeping helped very much." He added, suddenly wanting to cry for real, but he didn't. The sleep really did seem to have made everything worse. His head was spinning, and it seemed to be knocking against his skull every time it passed, like if he put a jug in the wrong place in the microwave and the handle kept knocking against the wall of the microwave and made the passengers think the plane was broken. He was also quite sure that everything was hurting at once, though he hadn't managed to concentrate on everything individually yet. He felt a bit sick and shivery.

"Hello, Arthur." Douglas said, coming down the corridor. "Are you feeling any-" He got closer and saw them properly. "Never mind." He said. "Did you take a nap?"

"Yes. I don't think it helped."

"Apparently not. Are you coming down for dinner?"

Arthur blinked and considered this. His brain seemed to be working even more slowly than usual. It hadn't occurred to him to miss dinner. Then again, he hadn't even thought about dinner, and now that he did, his stomach clenched painfully and made a bid for freedom up his throat.

"I… think I'd… maybe better… not." Arthur said, between desperate swallows. His stomach settled down in relief.

"Do you want us to get you anything?" Martin asked.

"No, I'm okay."

"Well, alright." Douglas said. "Just go and get some sleep. But you will have to have breakfast in the morning. And make sure you at least have something to drink."

"Righto." Arthur said, but his heart wasn't in it.

"And don't sleep in your uniform." Martin added. "Get changed and get into bed properly."

"Yes, Skipper."

"Don't worry, Arthur." Douglas said encouragingly, apparently also affected by the sad puppy aura. "You probably just feel worse because Martin woke you up. A few more hours of rest and you'll be fine."

Arthur believed him, because it was Douglas, and Douglas was almost always right. The two pilots left him to rest and, although he couldn't help feeling a little lonely and wishing he was well, he was mostly just relieved that he could finally go back to sleep. Or nearly. He made sure to drink a whole glass of water from the bathroom first and change into his pyjamas as he had been told, and even felt a little better. The water had cooled his throat which he hadn't realised until then had been burning with thirst, and his pyjamas were definitely a lot more comfortable than his steward's uniform. Unfortunately, they were also thinner and colder, but they reminded him of home and once he got in under the duvet (which was also clean and nice smelling and like a duck inside a duck) he really did feel, well, not exactly better, but like he might feel better very soon.

Unfortunately, he was wrong and so was Douglas.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

If you asked Arthur to identify the best moment of his life, it would take him a long time to pick one, if he could pick at all. There was the moment when he had first gone up into the sky on his dad's plane and it felt so brilliant and exciting and his dad had actually smiled at him and shown him stuff because Arthur had only been three then and they hadn't known he was stupid yet. His mum said he was too young at the time to remember it properly now, but he did. Gerti had smelt all clean and new. It was an exciting smell, but not a homely one like she had now.

Or there was the time his mum had come upstairs and told him her idea for MJN Air. That had been pretty brilliant. He hadn't been able to sleep all night for dreaming about it. Then there was meeting Douglas and Martin of course, and the first trips he'd had with each of them, and tons of good memories from the places they'd been and the things they'd seen.

Then there were little things too, the things he had once called 'the bath moments'. Like when his favourite song had started playing on the radio, or the days when he woke up to find snow had fallen during the night, or when he actually guessed who did it when he and his mum watched crime dramas. All in all, he'd had a lot of good moments.

Asking him to identify the worst moments in his life was even harder. Even the bad things had only really been not-quite-so-good. All he could think of as bad were some of the things his dad had said, and the way he fought with his mum about them, and the day his mum had walked out and he didn't think she was going to come back (she did of course, and told him off for not having more initiative, and said they'd just have to make sure they got the house in the divorce). Even compared to all that, Arthur was sure he was having one of the worst nights of his life.

He didn't know how long he had slept, but it was still dark, and sleeping seemed to have just made it worse again. He felt cold and damp, like he had been left out overnight and gone funny. The room span and he wanted to get up, but he ended up falling out of bed with a thud. That hurt a bit and his already aching limbs protested greatly, but he had to move, because he was pretty sure he was going to be sick, and he definitely didn't want to do it on a hotel floor where some poor maid would have to clear it up. Arthur liked hotel maids, they could always tell you interesting stories about the people that had stayed there and made a place feel a bit more homely if you came back to it. He didn't want to upset the ones here by being sick on their floor. He managed to crawl into the bathroom, but didn't make it all the way to the toilet, which to be honest was too high right now anyway. He did manage to get it into the shower tray, so that wasn't too bad.

He was sick a lot, for a long time. He didn't know how so much had fitted inside him. He didn't know why it all wanted to come out at once. It hurt his throat and his nose and his eyes and then throwing up made him cough, which made him be sick again, and it felt like forever until his stomach finally stopped turning over and he could lie down on the bathroom floor, exhausted.

He was, on reflection, really feeling quite miserable.

Arthur knew, if his mum was there, she would have made him get up and brush his teeth and wash his face and turn the shower on for a bit before he went back to bed. But his mum wasn't there, and he thought as long as he did those things in the morning maybe it would be okay, and the taps wouldn't seem so terribly high up and far away. He did want to go back to bed though. He wanted that a lot, actually. The floor was cold and not very nice, but at least it was more or less staying still. He shuffled forward on his hands and knees, knowing how pathetic he was being, but not really sure what to do about it, so he just kept stopping for little rests and made it to the bed in his own time. When he tried to pull himself into it, every muscle he had screamed out in pain, but it was a muffled, achy sort of pain and he managed to get into bed on the fourth attempt. It wasn't very nice in there. The sheets were all rumpled now, and sticky, but at least it was soft. Anyway, he didn't really notice, he was soon asleep again- or as close to asleep as he was going to get that night.

oooooooooooo

"Arthur. Arthur, open the door." Martin tried his best to sound authoritative, but there was still no answering voice from his steward, no matter how many times he knocked. He could hear movement, shuffling sounds, so the room was definitely occupied, but Arthur wasn't answering at all. It wasn't like him. Martin frowned and knocked harder. "Arthur, this isn't funny!"

This time it was Douglas that responded, coming out of the room next door. "Good morning, Martin. Still no luck?"

"No, he won't answer." Martin glared at the door, but unsurprisingly that didn't have much of an effect either. Douglas sighed to himself. He had been on enough overnight trips to know that Martin, before his morning coffee, could be rather irritable and short-tempered. That was the last thing he needed in this situation. He decided to take over and knock the door himself.

"Arthur? It's Douglas. Are you alright?"

No answer, again.

"He's definitely in there." Martin said, frustrated. "I can hear him moving. He won't open the door. Or can't. And it's locked."

"Alright. I think you'd better go and ask at the desk for the spare key." Douglas said. He knew he had to remain calm, the slightest hint of panic would set Martin off. "I'll wait here, see if I can wake him up."

"Oh, right, of course!" Martin said, but didn't move. "So, um, you think he's really ill then? A-and we need to get in so we can check on him?" Clearly Douglas' not-panicking plan had only half worked.

"No, I think we need to wake up Arthur, who has in the past been known to set and sleep through no fewer than fourteen different alarms. I also think we need to be taking off in the next four hours or so to take the wine tasters back to the jolly Costa del Fitton, and that I need to be home by this evening in order to pick up my daughter for her weekend visit; her first weekend visit in three months. And that, _Captain_," In spite of the title, Douglas was looking at Martin now with all the weight of authority he could muster. "Is why I think you should go and get the spare key."

Martin went. Douglas remained at his post by the door, casually tapping on it now and then, but not really thinking it would do any good. This wasn't the first time Arthur had failed to meet them at the arranged time in the morning and on those occasions usually required the door to practically be beaten down onto his head to get him to stir. He was just hoping that the steward would be back to his usual self once they got in, he really had looked poorly the day before; and for Arthur not to eat was unheard of. Douglas really just wanted to get home without any more difficulty. There was no way he was cancelling his daughter's visit. No way he could, really.

Martin was taking too long to fetch the key and the windowless corridor felt too hot and unpleasant. These things were contributing to a decline in Douglas' mood, but, if he was honest, so too was a pang of guilt. The walls between rooms were quite thin and he had been woken in the early hours of the morning by the sound of Arthur thudding about in his. Douglas had considered getting up to check he was alright, but on hearing the bathroom door slam open had thought no more of it and had gone back to sleep. If he was to find, assuming they ever got this door open, that Arthur really had needed help, Martin would be insufferable.

After a good quarter of an hour, just as Douglas had been about to go looking for him, Martin materialised with the key. "Where were you?" Douglas demanded.

"They didn't want to give me the key." Martin said. "They said it was against hotel policy to give out keys to other guests' rooms and anyway, it's their master key, they aren't supposed to let it out of their hands."

"And yet, it isn't in their hands. It's in yours."

"Yes, well, it's all a matter of showing them who's boss." Martin took one look at Douglas' disbelieving face and gave in. "Oh, alright, fine, I pinched it off the desk while the manager was on the phone. But it's not really stealing, I'll take it straight back down once we've gotten into this room!"

"Of course it's not stealing. It's merely unendorsed borrowing. But perhaps you could use your ill-gotten gains and get us in?"

"Right. Yes, right." Martin knocked one more time and called through to Arthur that they were coming in before opening the door. Two things were immediately obvious; first that Arthur was in occupation, judging by the contorted bed clothes and the lump beneath them, and secondly that he wasn't well. Even from the door they could see him shivering and the room smelt vaguely of sweat and vomit. Martin hesitated, then stepped in to open the curtains and the window. In Spain in the summer it was hardly going to chill the room, and he was probably right about the need for ventilation. Douglas went over to the bed and shook Arthur gently. His hand came away wet. Arthur had sweated right through his pyjamas, the sheets were in a similar state. Lovely.

"Arthur? Are you alright?"

Arthur came round slowly. "Hello Douglas." He said, managing a weak smile. His voice sounded awful, harsh and stammering. "Is it time to go?"

"We were about to get breakfast." Martin told him, coming over. "Never mind that, tell us what's wrong."

"I… I don't feel very well."

"I'll get you a glass of water." Douglas said, wanting an excuse to go and wash his hands. Arthur obviously had nothing else to add; in fact he seemed almost to be asleep again. "Does anything hurt?"

"Um… everything, really."

"You need to take some paracetamol. Martin, do you have the first aid kit?"

"No, it's still on board Gerti. I think I have some in my bag though, hang on." He slipped out and Douglas took a glass from the table and headed for the bathroom. He winced when he saw the state of the shower. Clearly Arthur had been ill in the night after all. Douglas turned it on and then went to the sink to get the water and clean his hands. He didn't like the look of all this. It didn't bode well for getting home that afternoon. He took the water back out and had to wake Arthur again so he could drink it.

"I'm not sure I can." Arthur said miserably. "It hurts to move."

"Drinking will help." Douglas said. "Come on. Don't be a child."

Arthur drank, as Douglas knew he would, but he was obviously struggling to manage even the smallest mouthful. Martin returned with the tablets.

"Here, Arthur."

"I can't."

"What? Yes you can."

For once, however, Douglas was inclined to agree with Arthur. If he was struggling to get water down and keep it there (and it really did look as if he might be sick again) he wasn't going to swallow the tablets. But he needed medicine. For once, Douglas was at a loss.

"I… I think…" Arthur started vaguely. Douglas tensed, ready to grab the bin if it was needed. This time, though, it was a false alarm. "I think… there are some dissolvable ones. They were in my bag…" He sighed in confusion and fell asleep again. He had only drunk a few mouthfuls of the water but they let him be while they searched. Arthur had the unfortunate habit of spreading his belongings over as many drawers and cupboards as possible; but on this occasion obviously hadn't finished as Martin found the sachets inside a wash bag at the bottom of his holdall. They made the drink up, made Arthur drink it; at which point he thanked them, threw up it all up (luckily Douglas still had the bin at the ready), apologised, told them a little tearfully that he really didn't feel well at all (possibly an understatement) and fell asleep again. Douglas went to wash the bin out in the shower, thinking about how glamorous his life had become, and Martin stood about at a loss for what to do and looking slightly queasy himself. He didn't like the sight of vomit.

"Let's go and have breakfast." He said to Douglas at last. "And decide what to do."

They went, taking Arthur's key with them so they could return the other. Douglas said nothing, his mind too busy trying to work out what Martin was going to say, and how he was going to get home to his daughter.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: The chapter in which everyone talks to everyone else on the phone. Next time there will be more action with Martin trying to work out a Spanish supermarket, I promise. In the meantime, enjoy wine tasters and laws from when bird flu was a thing. I have no idea if the law is actually still in effect, but everything else is, so why not? XD

Chapter Three

"We need to call Carolyn." This grand reveal was Martin's master plan. "We should probably tell her Arthur's ill anyway, and we need to tell her we won't be back tonight; we'll have to get an extra night at least here-"

"Wait, wait!" Douglas interrupted. "What are you talking about? Of course we're going home today! You can't cancel with the wine tasters just because Arthur's got a cold. Anyway, we can't afford extra hotel accommodation for them all."

"I know, but what else can we do? Arthur can't fly like that."

"Martin, it's not like he's a pilot. We'll just strap him in somewhere and he can go to sleep. I'm sure the passengers can manage a two and a half hour flight without tea and coffee on tap."

"It's not that!" Martin was massaging his forehead now, a gesture Douglas often mocked him for, as if his thoughts hurt. "You're forgetting about bird flu."

"Martin. Arthur does _not _have-"

"That's not what I mean! I mean, ever since bird flu was a problem, UK customs won't let anyone through if they're displaying flu-like symptoms and Arthur is a human-shaped germ cultivation!"

"Oh." Even Douglas was forced to pause and consider this. "Well, the boys at Fitton aren't going to stop him, they'll probably just send him off home with a hot water bottle and a get well soon card. That means Arthur only needs to get through this end without anyone noticing."

"How? I don't think he can even walk." Martin, oddly, sounded more cheerful now that he had settled on a course of action and had two cups of coffee. Douglas, however, was far from satisfied.

"Fine, call Carolyn, but I'm sure she'll say the same thing." He attacked his toast, brutally. Martin suddenly softened.

"I'm sorry, Douglas, but I don't see what else I can do. M-maybe your daughter can come next weekend instead?"

"No." He said. "The only reason I'm supposed to be having her _this _weekend is to get her out of the way while her mother goes to her- wedding dress fitting."

Douglas was sure it hadn't been more than half a breath, but Martin somehow still heard the catch in his words.

"Oh." He said. "I'm sorry, Douglas."

"She has every right to remarry, I did." Douglas said, crossly. "Although, at least _I _gave Elaine- that's my ex- some warning, in case she didn't want my daughter around a new woman. I've only heard about this new chap because my daughter told me."

"And… what's he like?"

"Oh, she likes him. I'm sure he'll make a wonderful step father."

This was said with a bit more bitterness than Douglas would have liked to admit.

"Oh." Martin said, awkwardly. "And… are you alright?"

"Fine. I just really don't want to let my little girl down- _again_- because we have to sit here babysitting Arthur!"

"I'm sorry, but what else can we do? Unless…" Martin trailed off, giving himself time to think, then, clearly deciding the idea he had was a good one, nodded and resumed. "Unless you fly home tonight with the wine tasters, spend the weekend with your little girl, and then fly back here and pick up Arthur and I in a few days when he's better."

"Well, I don't mind. It isn't far to fly solo." Douglas had to admit, it was obviously the best solution. "And it'll save Carolyn harassment with the wine tasters, not to mention money. But are you sure you're alright being left behind with Arthur?"

"It's not like I'm going to have to nurse him back to health." Martin snorted. "A bit of rest and he'll be fine."

Not for the first time, he was wrong.

oooooooooooooo

Carolyn was in the office at Fitton Airfield. Of course she was. A last minute trip like this, something was bound to have gone wrong. Accordingly, she was not at all surprised when the telephone rang an hour or two before they would be due to take off.

"Hello, MJN Air."

"Carolyn, it's Martin."

"Martin, what an unexpected surprise. What have you done now?"

"I haven't done anything! It's about Arthur. Now, Carolyn, I don't want you to worry-"

Hearing the words _Arthur _and _Not worry _immediately made her worry, of course. Not that she would admit it. It was just a good thing Martin couldn't see her grip tighten on the handset. It slackened slightly as he assured her, in typical Martin-ese, that it was _only the flu, well, probably not even that, just a sort of flu-y cold, and he would be fine soon but absolutely could not get on a plane today. _Carolyn sighed in relief, not only because her son was more-or-less alright, but also a little bit, if she was honest, because she wasn't there. Martin was still trying to persuade her, although she hadn't said anything, that Arthur couldn't get on the plane.

"Martin, Martin, I believe you." She said. "Listen, the thing about Arthur is, he only gets sick once in a blue moon, but when he does, he _really _goes for it."

"Mm. We'd gathered that."

"No, Martin, I mean it. He'll look ready to drop dead at any moment, but give him a day or two and he'll be no worse for wear. While he's ill, though, well, that's another story."

"What should we do?"

"There's not much you can do, just make sure he drinks and keep an eye on him. He can't swallow tablets, so you'll have to get the dissolvable ones from Gerti. Other than that, it's just a waiting game I'm afraid, and an expensive one this time, if I have to put the three of you up in a hotel for the duration." She sighed. "What are you going to do with the wine tasters? I can't pay for them as well. Hasn't Douglas come up with something?"

"No." Martin was offended. "_I _suggested that Douglas flies back with the wine tasters tonight and comes back in a few days, that way you only have to pay for two of us."

"What? Why Douglas?"

"Carolyn, we can't leave Arthur on his own-"

"Yes, but let's face it Martin, out of the two of you when it comes to coping with being stranded in a foreign country Douglas is infinitely more capable. Besides, you're not telling me he gave up the chance at a free Spanish holiday. What happened? Did you toss for it?"

"No!" Martin said again. "It's just that Douglas' daughter is staying with him over the weekend and he needs to get back."

"Oh, alright." Carolyn sighed. "Just speak to the wine tasters first, they did pay for two pilots. They'd probably sue if they found out mid-flight there was only one and no steward."

She issued a few other brief instructions, and said her goodbyes, quickly adding: "Tell Arthur to ring me when he wakes up" before hanging up. Relieved as she may have been to have been well out of the way, she couldn't help but worry about her ailing son.

oooooooooooooo

There was a problem. Usually, when there was a problem, Douglas would sort it out. But this time, remarkably, Martin had managed to make it so problematic that even he couldn't solve the problem.

The Chief Wine Taster- neither of them had caught his name- did not like the idea of having only one pilot.

"Is it safe?" He'd asked, in spite of Martin's reassurances. "If it's safe to fly with only one of you, why did we have two to begin with?"

"Having two pilots is just an extra precaution." Martin has said, in his most professional voice. "However, I can assure you that my first officer is more than capable-"

"Wait." The Chief had interrupted, looking between them. "If we can only have one of you, shouldn't it be the Captain? No offence." This with a nod at Douglas.

"Well, um… The thing is, t-to be honest, Douglas is… well… Douglas is… a better pilot than I am." The last words had come out all in a rush and Douglas had known Martin would deny it later, but he appreciated them all the same. "You'll be perfectly safe with him."

"Then why isn't he the captain?"

"What?"

"If he's the better pilot, why isn't he the captain?"

"Oh." Martin clearly hadn't anticipated the question. "Well. He… he lacks leadership skills. And he finds it difficult to speak on the tannoy. And I'm safer! And more professional!"

"Martin-" Douglas had realised then, too late, that the conversation was getting away from them.

"I don't think I want someone unprofessional flying us."

"Oh! No, he isn't! He's just… just not as professional as I am."

"Right." The Chief Wine Taster had been unconvinced. "Well, Captain, I'm sorry, but our original air firm can still fulfil our return flight and they've offered to do it for free to make up for the cancellation, so I think we'll take them up on that. That way you can sort out your staff however you need to, alright?"

And so they had arrived at the present problem. With no passengers to fly, Carolyn was not going to let him go back on his own, especially now the Wine Tasters were only going to be paying for half a trip. Which meant, through no fault of his own, he was going to have to cancel on his daughter. Douglas was not happy, not with Carolyn, with Martin, with Arthur; with any of them. Not happy at all. And judging by Martin's nervous glances as they went back upstairs, his displeasure was apparent to all.

"I'm sorry, Douglas." Martin said. "I didn't think he'd be like that about it."

"He probably would have been like that whatever you'd said, if he could get a free flight from this other company." Douglas knew he was speaking truthfully, but it didn't stop him being annoyed. "I'll just have to call Elaine and tell her- oh." The 'Oh' was because they had just reached the landing, and even at the top of the stairs he had been interrupted by the sound of hideous, violent coughing.

"Is that Arthur?" Martin asked, looking rather pale. Douglas was beginning to detect a squeamish streak in his gallant captain, but there wasn't time for that. The two of them ran for Arthur's door, Martin fumbling the key out of his pocket. The hacking inside continued. "He sounds awful, we shouldn't have left him alone!" Martin was getting flustered now, but managed to get the key in and the door open. Arthur was huddled up, bent double as he lay on his side in the bed, shuddering. Each cough make him jerk like an elastic band suddenly released, and he was panting for breath. Martin froze in the doorway.

"It's alright, Arthur." Douglas said, going down and sitting on the sweat-damp sheets. "We're going to help you. For a start, if you sit up, you'll find it much easier to breathe." Arthur didn't move, but Douglas had been expecting that. Taking hold of the young man's shoulders, he pulled him upright, having to hold him in a sitting position. Arthur was wracked with coughs again, but with Douglas steading him, the convulsions weren't quite so bad, and his breath came a little easier between the bouts. The all-too-frequent bouts, which were coming much too often for Douglas' liking, and usually ended in Arthur retching over his shoulder; though luckily there was nothing in him now and it was all dry. There wasn't much else Douglas could do except rub his back and wonder how he got into these situations.

At least he was doing more than Martin, whose only thought had been to fetch a glass of water which Arthur was in no state to drink and make sympathetic noises now and then.

"Coughing… really hurts, doesn't it?" Arthur wheezed when it finally seemed to subside.

"I think you're done for now, Arthur." Douglas said, letting him go. Arthur lay back down gratefully and Douglas stood up to get out of the way. Martin finally had a useful idea and found the spare pillow in the wardrobe, stacking it up with the others at the head of the bed so Arthur could sleep in a more upright position; which he did almost immediately, to their immense relief.

"Do you think we should call a doctor? I think he's really ill." Martin whispered.

"Not yet, you heard Carolyn." Douglas shrugged. "It could be he's past the worst."

"I hope so… what do you think is wrong with him?"

"Flu?" Douglas wasn't sure himself anymore. "With a nasty cough though, certainly."

"So maybe it isn't the flu."

"Honestly, Martin, how am I supposed to know?"

"I thought you knew everything." Martin said. He almost sounded like he was sulking. "Anyway, I thought you studied medicine."

"I did, thirty years ago. A lot has changed since then." He paused, gesturing that they should move into the hall way before they woke Arthur. "I've drunk a lot of wine." He followed Martin out.

"He definitely needs paracetamol, anyway." Martin said. "I'm going to head back to Gerti, get the first aid kit. Will you be alright here?"

"Fine." Douglas said, dully. He might have protested why he had to be on nursing duty, but he still needed to call his ex-wife and he really thought Martin seeing anymore illness would make the Captain sick himself.

Actually, that was a very good point. Whatever it was, there was a very good chance he and Martin would catch it. If they got sick too, this could potentially turn into a very long and interesting trip.

He decided not to mention it to Martin, the man looked pale enough as it was. Douglas hoped that was just with worry and wasn't a sign he was coming down with something.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I'm sorry, I lied. I know I said this chapter would have Martin running around a Spanish supermarket, but then I added some delirious-Arthur stuff at the start and the chapter ran too long. Next time for sure! In the meantime, please enjoy this.

Chapter Four

Arthur was confused. He had spent enough of his life being confused that he was basically an expert in what being confused felt like, and this was _definitely _confused. It wouldn't have been so bad if he wasn't aching all over, and if his head didn't feel ten times heavier than normal, and if it didn't hurt to breathe. It reminded him of the time in Moscow, when the air was so cold you could feel it hurting all the way down your throat and into your chest. It was Moscow air now, but without the cold part. He constantly needed to cough but didn't dare too. He was sure his ribs would snap and puncture out of his skin like the alien in _Alien_. And he thought someone might have stuffed his duck-inside-a-duck duvet down his ear and into his head.

This was why he was confused. He knew they hadn't, because the duvet was still on top of him. He could feel it, no longer crisp and snow white, but feeling sticky and slimy and somehow grey, snow three days after falling. And yet, he was still convinced it was inside his head. It felt like someone had shoved it into his head, but every time he thought that, he would feel the duvet, and realise he was confused, or dreaming.

It was really hard, this being confused, and things keeping reminding you that you were confused.

And it was so _hot_.

Arthur just wanted to sleep, to sleep and get away from all the confusing things, but it was hard when the confusing things were getting tangled up in the blanket that someone had shoved in next to your brain, and they were stuck in there and falling into- or was it _coming from?_- your dreams. Arthur was dreaming, or half-dreaming, or not dreaming at all, a lot of things that didn't really make sense.

Like Skip and Douglas were talking, and he just wanted to tell them to shut up and go away so he could sleep, but he didn't, because they were his friends. And anyway, they were both in uniform, and saying awful, horrible things; they were planning on leaving him behind there, or saying he was going to die, or that _mum _was going to die.

"Sixty-six is no age at all." Skip said. "No age at all. What will we tell Arthur?"

"We won't tell him anything." Douglas said back. "He's a clot, he won't know. We'll just tell him she's gone on holiday. He'll believe us. That's why we've been able to lie to him hundreds of times. That's why he thinks we're his friends."

Skip laughed, a cruel, not-at-all-like-Skip laugh. "As if we would be friends with a clot like him. Even mum doesn't want him, she only looks after him because she has to. She probably died to get away from him."

And Arthur knew it was a dream, because Skip would never call her mum, and anyway, they _were _his friends and would never say that. They _were _his friends, Skip had gone off to find him some medicine, and Douglas was just coming into the room now because he had heard a thud and thought Arthur might need help. It was only then that Arthur realised he had fallen out of bed, but it was okay, because Douglas was helping him up, and holding onto him, and asking if he was alright.

Arthur wanted to answer, but his teeth were chattering, and then he started coughing and couldn't stop, and he wasn't entirely sure that this wasn't a dream anyway. Douglas propped him up in a chair, and patted his shoulder and wasn't angry at all, even though Arthur had been coughing all over him, and smiled saying that he was going to get the maids to change the sheets, and slipped out of the room. It can't have been a dream, because Arthur fell asleep again then. He woke up when Douglas was helping him get back into bed, which seemed really far away, but it was worth it, because when he got there, the duvet was smooth and crisp again, which meant it couldn't be in his head after all. Knowing that your brain wasn't going to be crushed was a good feeling.

"Bang on the wall if you need me." Douglas said, with an un-Douglas-like look of worry. He squeezed Arthur's hand, briefly, and his fingers were lovely and cool. He must have thought Arthur was asleep, because a moment later he was back with a damp flannel, and he put it on Arthur's forehead before silently leaving. The cool felt wonderful.

_If I wasn't sick, _Arthur thought, distractedly, _I wouldn't know how brilliant this feels._

_I bet Douglas is a brilliant dad_. He thought, a few minutes later, and thought he should tell Douglas that sometime; but the thought ran out of his brain like water. Following on the flood were thoughts about _his _dad. Arthur shuddered.

It wasn't that he hated his dad, it was just that dad wasn't the best person to have around when you were sick. Not like mum, mum had been brilliant, she would always let him lie downstairs on the settee with the telly on; and she would watch too, and they would get to spend all day together. His dad usually told him to stop being such a drama queen and made him eat oranges even when he felt really sick, and then shouted at him if he thought he'd thrown them up on purpose. He didn't like Arthur being sick in the bathroom either because of the smell, and made him do it into the bin from his bedroom, and then even though they cleaned it out the smell would hang around for days.

Even now, Arthur couldn't stand oranges. Not even orange juice. Now, pineapples, no-one would complain about pineapples. They even _looked _fun.

His dad didn't like them though. He said they took too long to cut and prepare.

Arthur didn't really like thinking about his dad much. Sometimes he missed him, but not when he was sick. He hoped mum didn't tell him about this. He would get really mad at him for being ill in a hotel and ruining the trip. He would tell him off for being overdramatic.

Arthur could hear him coming down the hall.

oooooooooo

Douglas hadn't been intending to do a bedside vigil. It wasn't really his style. Anyway, Arthur was a grown man, and if Douglas had wanted to spend all his time nursing the sick, he would have graduated from medical school. Well, he would have tried. The truth was, he had given up on studying for his exams because it didn't seem to make any difference. He failed anyway, so what was the point in working hard? He just wasn't very good at medicine. Not that he would ever admit that to Martin, or Arthur, or anyone for that matter. He preferred them to think of him as infallible.

He was fallible though, really quite fallible. He didn't know what was best to do for Arthur, except to try and help him stay hydrated and warm and rested. That was another reason not to hover over him, who could sleep with that going on?

Unfortunately, he had failed to anticipate a previously unknown fact about Arthur: When Arthur was ill, he had a tendency to fall out of bed. Douglas had spent some time in his room trying to read his newspaper, but in reality had been listening for the near-constant coughing and wheezing on the other side of the wall to reach intervention level. Instead he had heard a thud, and gone round to the next room to discover a mostly-asleep Arthur tangled up in a sodden duvet on the floor. He had helped him up, waylaid a staff member to change the sheets, and got him back to bed. He'd hoped that the clean sheets would help Arthur rest a bit easier, but a few minutes later, Douglas heard a moan and a thud on the opposite side of the wall again, and had to go back and help Arthur back into bed _again _while the steward mumbled something about dads and pineapples. Douglas wondered if Arthur had misheard "Bang on the wall if you need me" as "Bang on the floor if you need me", so reiterated that he meant the less painful means of summoning assistance, but Arthur didn't even seem to know he was there.

Douglas hadn't even got back to his room before he heard the thud of Arthur falling out of bed yet again. At this rate the poor boy would be black and blue before he ever got to sleep. Douglas decided to try and wake him up properly. Perhaps nightmares were the cause of the disruption.

"Arthur." He said, clicking his fingers in front of the young man's face as if he had been hypnotised. "Arthur, wake up. Can you hear me? Why do you keep falling out of bed?"

"I was…" Arthur rasped, licking his dry lips. He needed to drink, even if Douglas had to pour it down his throat. "I thought dad was coming. I wanted to get up."

"Well, he isn't." Douglas said. "Just you and me. And I have an idea to stop you from hurting yourself falling out of bed every five seconds."

"Brilliant." Arthur said, weakly. He didn't sound a thing like his old self, but at least he was trying.

"Let's get you back in the chair for a second." Douglas said, hauling him up and sitting him back in the chair again. All this steward-moving was not good for his back; and nor was the next step of his plan, which was to pull the mattress off the bed frame and move the furniture around until he could fit it on the floor. "There we go, Arthur." He said cheerfully when his work was finished. "Now if you do roll off the bed, you'll only have a centimetre or two to fall."

"Brilliant." Arthur said blearily. "Like camping."

The problem with the bed being so low was that it was quite hard to get Arthur into it, but in the end Douglas more-or-less dropped him down and Arthur settled down again; or as much as he could while his body heaved with coughs again. Douglas did not like the sound of that cough at all. Clearly he was going to have to do a bedside vigil after all; but only once he had washed his hands, retrieved his newspaper, and gone down to the bar to get the one thing Arthur was sure to drink- pineapple juice. Preferably with a crazy straw.

oooooooooo

Martin got into the car in order to have a little privacy while he called Douglas. It rang out for a few moments before Douglas finally picked up.

"Hello, Martin." He said. "Hold on a minute, I'll call you back."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm currently holding a glass of pineapple juice steady so that Arthur can drink it out of a twisty straw." His tone of voice showed exactly what he thought of this. "We're making progress."

"Alright, I'll speak to you in a minute." Martin replied and hung up, trying not to laugh. The idea of his disgruntled first officer holding the drink for Arthur was just too fun to picture. The smile faded from his face, however, when he wondered just how ill that meant Arthur was.

A few minutes later, his phone rang and he took his hands away from where they had been drumming on the wheel in order to answer it.

"Hello." He said. "How's Arthur?"

"Not at all well and a pain in the neck." Douglas said grouchily, though it was concern rather than real irritation in his voice. "I've got him to drink something and it seems to have helped, but he could do with some more medicine. How are you getting on?"

"Not great." Martin sighed. "Do you know when our first aid kit was last checked? There's hardly anything in it; it's woefully under stocked. If the regulatory body were to-"

"So basically what you're saying is that there isn't any dissolvable paracetamol on board?"

"No, no pain killers at all, and no cold medicine either." Martin said. "Look, I've hired a car. I'm going to drive into Malaga and find a supermarket or a pharmacy."

"You've hired a car?"

"If we're going to be here for a while it'll work out cheaper than a taxi," Martin said, "And Carolyn can't kill me if it's for her son! Can she?"

He didn't sound like he knew. Douglas wasn't sure either, so he decided to ignore the question.

"Listen, Martin, while you're out, try and get hold of some pineapple juice. It seems to be staying down, so I think we'll try to keep the streak going."

"Righto." Martin said. "We should probably try and get him to eat too. What should I get?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, when I was sick, my mom always used to bring me up tea and toast." Martin said, with a note of fondness.

"Ha, you're lucky." Douglas laughed. "I'm a child of the fifties and my mother was a great believe in the restorative powers of fresh air. Whenever I got sick it was out for a hike on the hills. There was none of this resting while your two superior colleagues ran round half of Spain for you."

"Oh, that's a point." Martin said, thoughtfully.

"You think we should take him hiking? I should warn you, Martin, it never worked for me."

"No, no, not that; Spain." Martin said. "I mean, pineapple juice is easy, it'll have a picture on the bottle, but what's the Spanish for dissolvable paracetamol?"

"I don't know." Douglas said. "Lemsip?"

"Douglas! Seriously! I don't want to get him the wrong thing and end up making him worse!"

"I'm sorry, Martin, I don't know." Douglas said. "Look, just go and see what happens when you get there. It might be the same as in English, for all we know."

"Fine." Martin sighed. "Look, will you just ask him if there's anything he thinks he could eat?"

"Fine." For a few moments there was silence beyond the vague rustlings of movement and voices he couldn't make out, then Douglas' voice was back on the line. "Pork scratchings."

"What?"

"He said he has a craving for pork scratchings."

"Does he even like pork scratchings?"

"I don't know, but that's what he's asking for."

"Hmm. They say the body craves what it needs when it's ill, don't they?"

"So you're suggesting that what Arthur's body needs to fight off this flu is the deep fried skin of a pig?" Douglas asked.

"No." Martin answered. "But fat, salt, that kind of thing."

"Oh good." Douglas said. "So if you can't work out what the Spanish for _pork scratchings_ is, you can always just pop into the local McDonald's. What better way to make someone feel better."

"Shut up, Douglas." Martin was trying to think back to his Spanish O-level. "Well, I think pig was 'cerdo'… do they even eat pork scratchings in Spain?"

"I don't know, Martin, let me think." Douglas said. "The geographical prevalence of the pork scratching in Europe _was _the subject of my dissertation in my final year of university, but I fear that now, when so much time has passed, my information will be hopelessly outdated and-"

"Yes, alright." Martin snapped. "I'll just see when I get there, but tell him no promises. Wish me luck."

"Good luck." Douglas said obediently and rang off, but privately he rather thought _he _was the one who needed the luck. He still hadn't called to cancel on his ex-wife, but he couldn't put it off any longer. He was going to need all the luck he could get.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Translation issues and high drama. And a cliffhanger, as if we haven't had enough of those in Cabin Pressure recently. T.T I saw someone call the end of Yverdon-les-Bains a 'Criefhanger', and I think it's brilliant, so I shall adopt it. XD This is also a Criefhanger. Maybe. Yes =D

Chapter Five

Up until he tried to get paracetamol, Martin had been doing rather well. He had hired the car, driven to the nearest town and even found a supermarket without any great difficulty. He had collected a basket from near the front door and managed to navigate his way between shoppers until he reached what seemed to be a soft drinks aisle and picked up two cartons with pictures of pineapples and the word _jugo_, which he was fairly sure meant juice. Pork scratchings had been harder, and he had walked up and down the crisps aisle for some time, wondering if _beicon _really was just 'bacon' and if that would do instead. He decided with Arthur it probably wouldn't, and even made a valiant attempt at asking the sales assistant for "Pork scratchings. _Pork! Scratchings! _Um, _cerdo_. Skin _de cerdo. Por favour_", but the sales assistant had just looked alarmed and smiled and backed away. In all honesty, Martin had given up, but then he spotted a bag on the top shelf, labelled _Chicharrones; _but there was a picture of a smiling pig, and through its transparent nostrils, Martin could see something that looked an awful lot like a pork scratching. He decided it would have to do.

The problem was, the shelf was rather tall and Martin rather wasn't. In the end he had to call back the alarmed sales assistant, who approached with caution, and through a mixture of gesture and apologetic smiles and "_Cerdo, por favour"_s, he soon had a few packets of the snack safely in the basket with the juice. Martin felt rather pleased with himself. He thought that even Douglas would have had trouble finding pork scratchings in Spain, especially as he rather suspected that, although fluent in French and with a good grasp of Italian and Latin (as proved one rainy afternoon in Rome spent finding cover in old Cathedrals), Douglas did not speak any Spanish, while Martin had a B grade O Level. He made a mental note to show off about it when he got back.

That left just one item on his mental list- medicine. He couldn't for the life of him remember the word for 'medicine' or even for 'pharmacy', he had probably never known the word for flu and he didn't think '_Tengo un dolor de estómago_' ("I have a stomach ache") would be of much practical use. All he could do was wander around the shop in the hope of finding something helpful, but the shop was huge and he wondered if he would ever even be able to find the exit, let alone painkillers. He had blundered into a section that seemed to be discount clothing, and it suddenly struck him that it would probably be a very good idea to get Arthur a change of pyjamas so he could finally get out of the sweaty and sticky ones he'd been wearing. He found some cheap ones in packets and flipped through until he found a large- he was guessing, based on the fact that Arthur was both taller and more well-built than him- and put it in his basket. He was starting to wish he hadn't picked up the juice first. The basket was getting full, and heavy. Thankfully he spotted a woman then with boxes of some sort of tablet in the top of her trolley, so he walked in the reverse direction and in a rare show of good luck stumbled on the pharmacy. Unfortunately this was no help to him at all as all the boxes were labelled in Spanish and only Spanish. He suspected that inside the boxes there would be slips of paper with instructions about dosage in all sorts of different languages, but that wasn't much use to him unless he stood and ripped them all open. The best he could do was find one that looked like a painkiller from the picture on the packaging and take it back the hotel and see. He really didn't want to give Arthur anything they were unsure about, but he would just have to buy it and hope there was something written in English inside.

He had finally selected a box of tablets to do just that when he remembered the cause for the expedition in the first place- Arthur couldn't swallow tablets. Sighing, he put them back and resumed the search.

Lemsip. That was the brand of flu-drink Douglas had joked about Martin finding, the brand that Martin had never seen in any country outside of the UK- until now. True, there were only a few boxes on the bottom shelf, but still, they were there, the English boxes, possibly to cater to the demand of the growing population of UK migrants to Spain. Martin stared at them in disbelief.

How could Douglas have known? How could he possibly have known?

Martin put his paranoia about Douglas' potential omniscience to the side and picked up a box of blackcurrant drinks. They had painkillers in them, along with decongestants and who knew what to help fight off colds and flu. Personally, Martin thought the blackcurrant flavour was one of the worst things he had ever consumed, but he thought Arthur would prefer it to the lemon. It was the best he was going to get, anyway. He added it to the basket.

Now he could finally go and pay. Just as soon as he remembered where the tills were in the colossal supermarket.

ooooooooo

When Martin got back to the hotel carrying his _Caprabo _bags he was pleased to find that Arthur seemed much improved. As soon as Douglas opened the door to the room, Martin could see Arthur was more-or-less sitting up in bed and although clearly still feverish and shivery (and, in all honesty, unpleasant smelling) he was beaming at his Captain.

"Hello, Skip!" He said, in a way that sounded almost like his usual cheery greeting; albeit a cheery greeting that sounded like had been halved in volume, run through a paper shredder and thrown backwards through an electric fan. Wheezing out the words caused him to start coughing his dreadful hacking cough; Martin could hear his lungs rattling. He stepped forward in alarm but Douglas put a reassuring hand on his arm.

"Don't worry." He said. "Arthur does this now. We have, however, discovered the restorative power of pineapple juice."

"Oh, yes, I've brought some." Martin said, digging a carton out of the bag.

"Thank goodness, it was costing three euros a pop down at the bar." Douglas took it from him and poured it into a glass on the side. "Here you are, Arthur. Drink that and perhaps you can remember what we talked about regarding your voice."

Arthur drank deeply. "Sorry, Douglas." He said, flopping back into the pillows. Martin began to suspect he was feeling worse than he was trying to let on; he still looked exhausted. "Douglas has been brilliant, Skip." He said, wheezing between each word. "He's been giving me history lessons."

"No I haven't!" Douglas turned to Martin, incensed. "I've been telling him about my wayward youth back in the 60s."

"Yeah, history." Arthur said, pulling his blanket up more securely over his shoulders. Martin wondered if he was trying to stop the shivering or just hide it. He didn't like the look of this. "Before I was born."

"It's not-"

"Mm, before my time, too." Martin agreed, turning to unpack the shopping onto the side before Douglas saw his smirk. The first officer sighed.

"When you two get to my age," He said. "You'll see that thirty years is nothing."

"When I get to your age?" Arthur looked like he was struggling to comprehend the idea. "How old will you be then?"

"He'll be getting on for ninety." Martin said quickly, before Douglas could say anything.

"Oh, no." Douglas said. "I shall be dead by then."

"What?!" Arthur tried to sit up and the effort made him cough worse than ever. Douglas, hoping against hope that Arthur wouldn't throw up on him, had to move to sit beside him on the bed to hold his shoulders and steady him against the spasms the coughs were causing. He gave Martin a significant look, a keep-talking-so-he-doesn't-panic look. Martin did his best.

"W-why would you be dead by then?" Martin asked. "You can't possibly know-"

"Yes I can." Douglas said. "They say there's no such thing as an ex-alcoholic, and as soon as I'm so old and decrepit it doesn't matter anymore, well, I may as well enjoy myself. With some rather fine bottles of single malt whiskey, for instance."

Martin couldn't help chuckling, but Arthur gripped Douglas' arm with a look of pleading in his eyes.

"You can't!" He stammered out. "You absolutely can't!" Martin could hear that his teeth were chattering between the coughs. Douglas obviously heard it too because he decided to drop it.

"Alright, Arthur." He said. "Don't worry, I'll live to a hundred, I promise. If it makes you calm down and lie back, I'll go to my grave as sober as a puritan at a funeral."

"Okay." Whether he understood the metaphor fully or not, Arthur seemed reassured and lay back, taking in a few deep gasping breaths, which meant the coughs finally subsided. Martin showed him what he had bought, and the hour had mixed results. The pineapple juice went down well, as did the Lemsip (blackcurrant, it turned out, was Arthur's favourite); but before he could drink one, they decided he should really try to eat something. Arthur was very happy with the pork scratchings and very grateful to Martin, but he had only eaten half the bag when he started to feel sick, and was shortly after throwing up again. At least he had made it to the toilet this time. They gave him some water and when his stomach had settled, made him eat just a few pieces out of the bag. It seemed cruel, somehow, but he needed to eat before he could have any medicine. When five pork scratchings had been slowly consumed and stayed down, Martin boiled the room's small kettle and made up the Lemsip, which Arthur drank most of without too many problems. He really was worn out now and they decided to take their leave and let him sleep. Martin sensed potential awkwardness about the pyjamas.

"I got you some new pyjamas to change into, Arthur." He said. "You'll probably feel better to just get out of those. Um… y-you can manage changing, can't you?"

Arthur affirmed that he could, and the two of them slipped out with some relief, ready to go and eat themselves.

"He seems a lot better." Douglas said. "We might even make it home tomorrow. Still, I'll keep an eye on him tonight."

"It's alright." Martin said, reaching to take Arthur's room key. "You've been sitting with him all day. I don't mind checking in on him after dinner and before bed."

"Alright, thanks." Douglas handed the key over. "Now, seeing as Carolyn owes us so much in care costs, might I suggest we go and sample the most expensive delights from the hotel's exquisite menu?"

Martin readily agreed. It had been a rather long day.

ooooooooo

It was probably just paranoia, but Martin decided to check in on Arthur once more before he turned in for the night. He had gone in after he and Douglas had finished dinner, to discover Arthur curled up on the bed, huddling into his almost upright pillows, and snoring. He didn't usually snore; in fact Martin thought it was a bit unfair to call it snoring now- _rasping _was more the word. His breathing still wasn't right, and though his fever had seemed to be going down earlier, Martin could see Arthur was sweating again now. He wondered if he should take the blankets off, but he assumed Arthur would do that himself in his sleep if he was overheating, and he didn't want him to catch a chill. He didn't even stir as Martin went into the room, and Martin decided not to wake him, slipping back out again and thinking that maybe a good night's rest would do the trick and Arthur would be well enough to sneak through customs the next day.

Even so, as he whiled away the evening first with a short stroll with Douglas to look around the town and see the vineyards, and then reading a book in his room, he wasn't quite easy in his mind. He really hadn't liked the sound of Arthur's wheezing and it wouldn't get out of his head. He knew before he could go to sleep he needed to go and check on him again, or he'd just worry. Perhaps, indeed, he should have checked in on him sooner, it was later than he'd thought. He padded as quietly down the corridor as he could, noticing the light was already out in Douglas' room. Well, the first officer had been known to go to bed simply out of boredom, and he'd been complaining that he'd already finished the book he'd brought with him. Martin had been trying to finish his so they could trade, but Douglas wasn't much of a reader anyway. He preferred to play cards, but there was no point when it was just two of them. Martin made a mental note to suggest a game as soon as Arthur was up to it. He felt a bit sorry for Douglas, stuck here instead of at home with his daughter.

He was thinking about tactics for a card game when he went into the room. That would be the worst thing later on, the thing he felt the most guilty about. It just went to show how thoughtless he had been, how uncaring, how little he had been thinking about Arthur. That was the worst thing.

Martin opened the door to the room as softly as he could, and by the little light that spilled in from the door, he could see that Arthur had slipped down off the pillows and was now curled up flat on the mattress. He had, as Martin had predicted, kicked off the blanket which lay abandoned on the floor beside him as he convulsed. His breathing sounded worse than ever, tiny, shallow little hiccups. Martin had never heard anything like it. It was like he was barely breathing. No, he _was _barely breathing. The light spilled across Arthur's face and by it Martin saw there was a blue tinge on his lips. Arthur was choking, suffocating- and his eyes were open. Martin could see them, reflecting in the light from the hall. Arthur was suffocating and he was awake to know about it.

For a moment Martin froze in the doorway. He wanted to bolt, go and hide under his blankets until he woke up back in his attic room in Fitton and found out this was all a dream. Only it wasn't, it was Arthur, really here, really struggling to breathe and really counting on Martin to save him. And Martin didn't have a clue what to do.

So he did what he always did in an emergency, and started banging on the wall to wake Douglas, because if anyone could do something clever and sort it out, it would be him. While he banged frantically, screaming for Douglas to come, he grabbed Arthur's mobile from the side and dialled _112_, suddenly very glad he had made a point of memorising the emergency services number for every major European country.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This is what happens when I decide to write fanfiction all weekend instead of studying- you get another chapter nice and quick :) And it's a little longer than usual too, though how much actually happens is up to you to decide. I was enjoying just writing a lot of background conversations and so on in this chapter, and I don't really set about these fics in the same way as I do about serious writing; in other words, I just let things go at their own pace without worrying too much about structure and pacing and blocking. I hope that's okay -_-;; Sometimes I think the details are what make a story interesting to read, anyway, so I'm sticking by it.

Thanks to all those who reviewed for the last chapter! I'd gotten used to not having any reviews, so I was really surprised, but in a happy way =D Clearly I should put characters at death's door more often :P Just as a warning, this chapter isn't much better…

Chapter Six

Douglas, in fact, was not asleep when the hubbub started. He had only just turned his light off before Martin passed and only then out of boredom rather than out of any actual desire to sleep. He had just been starting to let his mind wander into the verge of sleep when he heard Arthur's door open and assumed it was Martin going to do a last check on him. He wasn't worried, though, Arthur had seemed much improved that afternoon- although, perhaps, not as improved as he had been pretending. Even if Martin hadn't noticed it, Douglas had seen the strain on Arthur's face. He knew Martin was hoping to fly home in the morning, but personally he thought they would need one more day and that would do it. It was a good thing the hotel wasn't too busy, if these rooms had been booked, they would have been chucked out by now.

The sudden pounding on the wall roused Douglas so effectively that he was out of bed before he even fully registered what the sound was. Martin was calling him, and it was a Martin in full-blown panic mode. There was no time to question what might be happening, he just ran to the next room where the door had thankfully been left open.

"What?!" He said. "What's happening?!"

"His lips! His lips are turning blue!" Martin turned away then to talk down the phone in what sounded like relatively confident Spanish, at least compared to the stammering and broken phrases Douglas had heard him use on occasion before. It was better not to point this out, of course, or his competency would have immediately evaporated. Anyway, at the time, Douglas didn't even consider it. He too had become aware of the tiny painful little choking breaths coming from the mattress on the floor and he didn't like the sound of them at all. He flipped on the light so he could see what he was doing, and ran to Arthur's side.

At first, just for a moment, he thought Martin was right; but no, taking a deep breath he would never admit to and looking again through calmer eyes, he realised there was no blue in Arthur's lips. The steward was pale, certainly, even his lips were almost white, but there was no blue- not yet. The ambulance, however, was still a very good idea. He pulled Arthur into a sitting position, hoping it would help ease his breathing. It didn't. Arthur was unconscious now and flopped limply in his arms.

"Five minutes." Martin said, hanging up the phone. "They said they'd be here in five minutes! Five minutes is far too long, far, far too long, what if he-!"

"Martin!" Douglas hissed. "Stop it! Arthur isn't like me, he doesn't know what you're like! You are his captain, his _commanding officer_, and if you panic, he panics. I don't know what you thought you saw in the dark, but his lips aren't even blue, look. He needs an ambulance, but he is _not _going to die. Now calm down and think about what to do next."

This wasn't strictly true, however. Douglas knew that Arthur was in fact well aware of what Martin was like and would, had he been in any state to do so, have attempted to calm Martin down and cheer him up. Douglas' words had the desired effect, however, as Martin nodded a few times, breathed, and then spoke more calmly.

"Health card." He said. "We need to find his EU Health Card, and probably the insurance details too, or they'll struggle to be able to treat him." Insurance, thankfully, was one thing Carolyn never skimped on, and had ensured that they all had valid health cards that would entitle them to receive discounted or free health care while in EU countries. These facts ran through Martin's brain and steadied him, grounding him in technicalities and practicalities. The insurance documents were, as always, in a folder in his flight bag and he knew exactly where they were. The health card, however, Arthur was responsible for, and who knew where he would have put it.

Trying not to panic, Martin pulled out Arthur's bag and began to search. The logical place would be with his passport and it was worth checking, although Arthur only ever applied logic very sparingly and then his own peculiar brand of it. Martin knew where he kept his passport though; in the outside pocket of his bag so that it was easy to get in and out at customs, even though Martin told him constantly how insecure that was. Martin took it out.

There was no ordinary burgundy cover here of course, no lion and unicorn holding up a coat of arms, at least not on display. Arthur's passport was inside a _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles _cover. Martin had been the one to buy it for him as a birthday present from a market in the Algarve following a nostalgia-filled conversation about TV shows they had enjoyed as children. Arthur had been thrilled, and the subsequent realisation that none of the turtles had had a yellow bandanna and that this one did, and that the holder was completely pirated, had not dampened his enthusiasm for long. He had decided that this was simply a new turtle, who he named Picasso (the only painter he knew) and said this was the perfect name for the incorrectly coloured turtle, because Picasso always got the colours wrong too. And the shapes. And his pictures didn't really look like anything at all, really, and maybe the reason people liked them so much was because it was fun to try and guess what they were supposed to be. At that point Douglas had said Arthur ought to be an art critic, Arthur took him seriously, and the day had gone on as normal.

_I'll buy him a proper one when he gets better, _Martin thought, _One with Donatello on it. _Everyone knew Donatello was the best turtle, or at least anyone with any sense.

Arthur wheezed painfully behind him and Martin suddenly realised he had been staring at the passport holder thinking about _stupid _turtles while all the while Arthur had been fighting for every breath. He felt the panic grip him again as he wondered how he could be so horrible, so useless- but self-deprecation had to wait too, he realised, he needed to find the health card. He opened the passport, felt around inside the cover and, to his relief, felt his fingers close around the small rectangle of plastic.

"Got it." He said. "And I know where the insurance papers are, they're in my room, I'll go and get them, and then I'll go downstairs, so I can show the paramedics where to go."

"Alright. Just stay calm." Douglas said and Martin left. Douglas was left alone with Arthur and he realised he had never felt quite so alone in his life. He had told Martin to stay calm and managed to appear unruffled, but underneath it all, he was far from calm himself. All those years at medical school and he had no idea what was wrong with Arthur or what to do about it. Even Martin was being more helpful than him, in spite of his panic. Martin had called the ambulance, and in Spanish, no less; Martin had found the essential health card that, if he was honest, Douglas had practically forgotten even existed and it was Martin who had gone now to wait for the ambulance.

Douglas had to wait with the patient. He was the one after all, who had studied medicine for years, although he had barely attended lectures and his exam grades hadn't been outstanding. None of what he remembered was of any use in helping Arthur to keep breathing. Had they been in a hospital, Douglas would have had some idea what to do with the equipment available or if Arthur has stopped breathing altogether, he could have done emergency CPR. What he could not do was fix Arthur in a sparsely furnished hotel room in the middle of Spain with knowledge that had been rusting in his head for over thirty years. He had checked Arthur's airways while Martin was looking for the health card and hadn't found any blockages, which made it worse, because it meant the breathing problems were to do with something going wrong inside, and that was much more serious. He had told Martin that Arthur was not going to die, and he believed it, but only because he had to. His belief was based on flat refusal, not medical evidence apart from the one tiny scrap of hope that Arthur's lips not actually being blue provided. Douglas grabbed hold of that scrap and wound it tightly round his fingers, not letting go. Goodness knew it wasn't much, but he would take what he could get.

oooooooooooo

This was only the third time ever that Douglas had fetched coffee for Martin. The first time had been on Martin's very first day at MJN Air when Douglas thought it would be a little unfair to expose him to the full brunt of an enthusiastically friendly Arthur unprepared and the second had been at the breakfast bar of a hotel in the states, when he was trying to persuade the Captain to let him go and while away some time in a casino in spite of their CEO expressly forbidding such amusement. This time it was because the captain looked like an absolute wreck.

When the ambulance had at last arrived, Douglas had gone with Arthur, leaving Martin to follow in the hire car. Douglas wasn't sure which of them had got the better deal. On the one hand, he could only imagine how Martin must have felt driving alone in the dark with no idea what was happening, stuck going at the speed limit on unfamiliar roads trying to find a hospital he didn't know the way to and not knowing what would happen when he got there. On the other hand, Douglas was getting to see what was happening up close and personal, and what was happening was that the paramedics were saying urgent, worrying sounding things in a language he didn't understand and strapping a breathing mask over Arthur's face and busying themselves around him, occasionally throwing a question at Douglas in broken English, some he could answer and some he could not. Then they arrived at the hospital and Arthur was rushed inside, Douglas was brushed off and left to wait for Martin or for news. Martin had arrived first.

He had immediately asked questions, of course, more questions Douglas couldn't answer, and once he understood that Douglas was as frustrated as he was he crumpled in a heap into one of the plastic waiting room chairs, twisting his fingers into his hair. He cut a pathetic figure, looking rumpled and tired, wearing only the t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms he slept in, mismatched with his work shoes he had pulled on without socks. Douglas had felt sorry for him and so had gone to get coffee. That said, he probably didn't look much better himself.

"So then," he said a few minutes later handing Martin a cup of what he thought was probably the vending machine's approximation of coffee, the labels all being in Spanish. "What was that all about?"

Martin said nothing, sipping his drink. Douglas sat down next to him and took a mouthful of his own before trying again.

"You took ten years off my life, saying his lips were turning blue when they weren't. Even you don't usually panic that badly."

"Sorry, I just…" Martin trailed off, fixing his eyes on a poster opposite with a picture of someone washing their hands. "D-do you think if I'd checked on him sooner-"

"No!" Douglas interrupted. "No, Martin, I don't. We just thought it was the flu and anyway, we've already done more than most people would to try and look after him. Anyway, he can't have been that bad for more than a few minutes before you got there, otherwise it would have been a lot worse."

"I know, I know, it's just…" He trailed off, took a deep breath, and abruptly changed topic. "H-have you ever seen anyone die?"

Douglas actually had to take a second to think about this and was rather surprised to find that in spite of the large variety of experiences over his life he had never been with at anyone's side as they passed away. His mother had died at home in her sleep a decade ago, and he didn't have any other relatives he had been close enough to that he would have kept a deathbed vigil for them. His father was still alive and one of those infuriating over 90s who refused to show any sign that they were aging at all. He could still beat Douglas at a game of darts and joked that the day he lost he would lie down and accept death. Occasionally Douglas even threw the game, but not nearly so often as he would have liked.

"No, I haven't." He told Martin. "I take it that you…?"

Martin nodded. "I know it's stupid, but I was… I was with dad, when he passed. We, we were all there, Mum and Simon and Caitlin and me, but he never woke up to talk to us. He just started to struggle to breathe, even with the mask on, and… and then…"

"His lips turned blue." Douglas completed, briefly clapping Martin on the shoulder and removing his hand again. "I see. But that won't happen to Arthur."

"No." Martin agreed. They sat in silence and drank their coffee for a while.

"Did you really mean what you said?" Martin asked eventually, breaking their reverie. "About drinking yourself to death when the time comes?"

"I didn't mean it like that." Douglas said. "I have no desire to go back to waking up in shop doorways in Edinburgh with no memory of how I got there, although it was an interesting experience to have once and the night before was fabulous, judging by the photographs." Martin huffed and Douglas ignored him, continuing. "No, I just mean, well, when I'm so old that my health is already failing, it won't do any harm to enjoy a scotch now and again. At the end of the day, once I've seen my daughter down the aisle, I'm basically done."

"Mm." Martin was only half convinced. "How did that go, anyway, when you told your ex-wife you had to cancel?"

"Oh, it was the usual screaming and blaming and recriminations." Douglas said. "It reminded me very much of our marriage."

"Messy divorce, was it?"

"Not so much, actually. We'd already decided to get divorced before we found out she was pregnant-"

"If the marriage was that bad," Martin interrupted, unusually eager for gossip. They needed a distraction. "How did she end up pregnant?"

Douglas looked at him in bemusement. "Well, Martin," he said "When a mommy and a daddy love each other very, very much, or sometimes when they're very angry at each other, they're so enraged that-"

"Yes, alright! I get it! So you were already getting divorced?"

"Yes. We decided to give it another try then, though, for the baby's sake. Things actually settled down a lot, but in the end we realised we were just living completely separate lives in the same house and, well, we didn't think it would be fair on the baby to use her just to try and fix things, so I left a few weeks before she was due. It was all quite amicable at the time. It's since that she's started hating me again. She calls me disinterested because I've had to cancel so many times."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Douglas."

"Oh, it's alright. She'll still let me take my daughter while she's away for the honeymoon, she'll have to. She won't find anyone else now. I've booked the whole fortnight off with Carolyn." He smiled slightly. "I'm taking my daughter on holiday with me. We're going to Paris. It'll be her first time abroad."

"Well, that's nice."

"Yes, I think so." Douglas said. "I just hope her mother hasn't been telling her that I don't care. The step-father will be taking my place enough as it is without adding anything else to his arsenal."

"I'm sure-" Martin began, but Douglas cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"It wouldn't be the first time." He said. "My first marriage- now, that _was _a messy divorce. My wife was pregnant then, too."

"Oh. So you have more than one child?" Martin was surprised. Douglas had only ever mentioned the single daughter from his second marriage.

"No." Douglas said. "I just thought I did, or was going to. She told me about the pregnancy three months before she told me about the affair and that it wasn't actually my child."

"No, that's awful." Martin said as sympathetically as he could. He had known about Douglas' string of failed marriages of course, but the man had brushed them off so easily, even seemed to brag about them, so that Martin had never stopped to think of the emotional impact they might have had. He also realised, slightly guiltily, that he had suspected Douglas himself to have been the cause of the problems. "So… you've never…?"

"Never what?"

"You know." Martin felt bad even for saying it. "Cheated."

"Of course not!" Douglas seemed genuinely offended and Martin immediately wished he hadn't said anything. "Alright, when I was married to Elaine I did see quite a lot of Helena, the odd flirtatious text, but we never _did _anything. How can you-"

"Oh! Douglas!" Martin said suddenly, looking horrified. "We haven't phoned Carolyn!"

Douglas halted abruptly in his tirade. Martin was right. It was all very well trying to distract themselves while they were waiting for news, it was fine to try and ignore the worry at the backs of their minds that somewhere in the hospital Arthur was fighting for his life and there was nothing they could do about it, but somehow, horribly, they had overlooked the one thing they absolutely should have done. They hadn't called his mother. Douglas got to his feet. It would be a relief to have something practical to do.

"I'll do it." He said.

"What are you going to say?" Martin asked.

Douglas didn't answer, walking off to find a quiet corner. The truth was he had no idea what he was going to say. He couldn't even tell her for sure whether Arthur was still alive or already dead.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This is the Carolyn chapter... Next time is the Herc chapter XD

Chapter Seven

Most women, on being woken in the middle of the night to be told that their only son was in hospital in a foreign country at the point of death would have broken down. Carolyn, however, was made of stronger stuff. She allowed herself a minute to sit in silence on the bed and then she got up and started getting ready to go. Douglas had told her to come, so she would.

The first thing she did was call Hercules to take her to the airport. It would take him a while to reach her house and she wanted to be underway as soon as possible. When an exhausted and _concerned _sounding Douglas told you your son had been rushed to hospital with severe breathing difficulties and then hustled away into the depths of said Spanish hospital without time for explanation, and then said "I really think you need to come, Carolyn, as soon as possible", it did not do to dawdle.

Herc was predictably concerned and supportive, but Carolyn cut him off short. He could comfort her in person; while he was on the phone he wasn't on his way and until he was on his way, she couldn't be either. While she was waiting she got dressed (although she barely looked at what she put on so goodness knew what sort of state her outfit was in) and packed a small suitcase. She didn't know how long she would be there, but she put in a few changes of clothes for herself and for Arthur.

They hadn't shared a suitcase since he was six years old. In fact, it had been this same suitcase, the one she had bought for her honeymoon with Ian and never found a reason to replace, except for long trips. The first time she had taken Arthur abroad, she had filled this little case with little shorts and shirts and socks and nappies and baby wipes and bottles and teething rings and all the other endless pieces of paraphernalia a baby required and put her own clothes into the large case with Gordon's. That, she supposed, must have been when things were still going reasonably well, the one and only time they had all gone on holiday as a family. Then Gordon got busy at work (with his secretary, most likely) and gradually, as Arthur got older and the holidays got shorter, Carolyn had packed them both into this little case- until he got to the stage where he wanted to pick out his own clothes and have a bag of his own. This was the first time they'd shared since. His clothes were far bigger now and much more garishly bright than anything she would have chosen for him. It had been thirty years since that first trip, more or less. She wasn't sure where the time had gone.

She was getting a touch emotional, but made sure to cover it up before Herc arrived. Once she was in the car, he began to drive immediately. At least he had some sense.

"Carolyn, are you alright?" He asked.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Really." He glanced sideways at her, disbelieving.

"Well, alright, I am a little worried about Arthur, but he'll be fine. I mean, it's _Arthur_. He's incapable of being anything but fine."

"Well, that is true." Herc reached down to move into a higher gear, and then took her hand. She didn't respond, but she didn't pull away either, looking out of the window in silence. Herc let her, though inside he was scrabbling desperately for something, anything to say that would make it better. He wanted to question her, too; she had been very terse on the phone, he wanted to know what was happening and what was wrong and a hundred other things she probably didn't know herself, but he kept his mouth shut. For once, he knew, what she wanted was more important than what he wanted, and she didn't want his comfort or his questions, she wanted to sit in the quiet and get on a flight as soon as possible.

"I had a quick look at flights while I was getting dressed." Herc said. "There's a few different ones going tonight. The details are in the pocket on the back of your seat if you want to look."

Carolyn did. She desperately wanted to think she was doing something practical for Arthur. She reached round to fetch the papers and as she did so spotted Herc's overnight bag tossed unceremoniously onto the back seat.

"Are you flying tomorrow?" She demanded. "You should have said, I would have called a taxi."

"No, I'm not flying tomorrow, I'm flying tonight." Herc said. "I'm coming with you."

"Hercules, you really don't have to-"

"Stop it right there." Herc cut her off. "I don't care whether you think I have to, I am. I've grown quite fond of Arthur, although to be honest I find him only slightly less baffling than quantum mechanics, and I'm worried about him. And I'm worried about you. So I'm coming. To support you."

Carolyn squeezed his hand, a slight brief pressure on his fingers, then pulled away and looked out of the window. She said nothing for several minutes.

"The thing is, Herc… I don't want you there."

"Tough."

"I mean it, I don't want you-"

"I don't give a hoot whether you say you want me there or not, I will be there and that's a promise."

"Hercules!" He was in trouble now, she was losing her temper. "If you are there being sympathetic and comforting I shall probably cry, and if Arthur is… going to die, I don't want the last thing he sees of me to be me weeping like a school girl!"

"He isn't going to-"

"I don't want you there." Carolyn repeated, not looking at him. "I want you here, waiting for me, so I can find you when we get back."

Herc brushed a hand over her shoulder and then went back to the gears. They drove on in silence.

ooooooooooooooo

Martin appeared to be dozing in the hospital chair, though Douglas doubted he was really asleep. In fact, he rather suspected Martin's eyes were being kept tightly shut in order to stop tears falling, so for once he didn't comment and left him to it. If he was asleep, Douglas envied him. Staying up all night at a hospital aged one far more than sleeping through one did. He rubbed his eyes and contemplated another cup of barely passable coffee. If Arthur ever got back on board Gerti, Douglas would never complain about his coffee making skills again, even on the days he'd wanted to use up the last of the jar and the coffee came out like so much brown coloured custard. At least it more or less resembled coffee. This stuff tasted like washing up water that had once had a coffee cup dipped into it. Perhaps he'd go and buy another, though, just for something to do.

"Mr Richardson? Mr Richardson?"

Douglas had already climbed to his feet and turned quickly, seeing a man standing by the desk looking around. Next to him, Martin sat up, instantly alert, but seemed too overcome to speak.

"Doctor, over here." Douglas said and the man came to join them. Martin got to his feet too, looking positively ashen. Something to tease him for later. "Is Arthur alright?"

"You are Mr Richardson?" The Doctor checked, in perfect English. Oxford educated, Douglas would guess. At least Arthur's life was in well-taught hands. "You are Mr Arthur Shappey's…?"

"We're pilots." Martin blurted. "We're the pilots, Arthur is our cabin crew. I'm his captain. Captain Martin Crief. Is Arthur okay?"

"Captain, Mr Richardson." The doctor shook them both by the hand. "I am Doctor Covas. Perhaps you would accompany me to my office?"

Douglas nodded and followed, giving Martin a little push when he noticed he wasn't moving. He didn't blame him. Doctor's private offices were not places one wanted to see too often. They went in and sat down as Doctor Covas shut the door and came to join them. He smiled reassuringly and Douglas immediately relaxed. Of course it could still be extremely serious, but a doctor would never smile, even a brief one like that, if the patient was dead. Whatever state he was in, Arthur was still alive, and that seemed a blessing enough.

"I'm afraid it is not the best news." The doctor said, without further preamble. "However, your friend has in a way been very lucky. Things could have been a lot worse."

"But he's alive?!" Martin demanded. "That's good, isn't it?"

"Of course." The doctor nodded. "Though I'm afraid Mr Shappey is still in a critical condition."

"Critical? W-what does that mean? Does that mean he _will_…?"

"It means he _could_." Douglas said stonily. He was in no mood for doctor's platitudes.

Doctor Covas, however, was very good at his job and somehow, even Douglas felt somewhat reassured even though the things they were being told were not good things. Arthur, it seemed, had developed some sort of infection of the blood and it had got into his lungs. He had been on the verge of going into _septic shock_, his blood pressure had been dropping rapidly and dangerously. A few more minutes and things would certainly have been a lot worse; if he hadn't simply died, organs could have failed, greater damage could have been done to Arthur's lungs- in fact, Doctor Covas stated that Arthur's chances were 'significantly greater' than the fifty-fifty chance of survival they usually gave in such cases, whatever that meant. Arthur was in intensive care on a broad spectrum of antibiotics, which the doctor told them should see him through until they were able to identify the original infection that had given way to this one- this kind of infection, it seemed, arose only from the complication of another. He had asked if they had any ideas, and Douglas and Martin were able to offer very little, but they told him about how they had thought Arthur had the flu, about his awful coughing. The doctor nodded and told them they should be able to identify the cause, and asked if they had any further questions.

Douglas wanted to ask whether Arthur was going to be alright, but it was pointless. Doctors couldn't be pinned down to such specifics. Quite often they simply didn't know, or didn't want to be proven wrong.

"Does Mr Shappey have any family who could join him here?" Doctor Covas asked. "His stay may turn into a long one."

"His mother is on her way." Douglas said, privately thinking that the poor doctor would have rather a lot on his hands when she arrived.

ooooooooooooooo

There was little more news until morning. Arthur's condition was extremely serious, but he was stable for the moment and, as long as they could find out what had caused the complication, Doctor Covas seemed reasonably optimistic about his chances. He was, however, in the intensive care unit, shut off from the outside world and absolutely forbidden visitors; not that he would have been conscious to know about them. Martin had spent a good hour in with a liaison worker sorting out paperwork so that Arthur could continue to be treated in spite of being a foreigner, although it seemed the idea was that Arthur would be transferred to a hospital in England when and if it became safe enough to do so. They called Carolyn again to try and update her, but her phone was turned off- she was obviously on a plane. There was nothing else to do but wait.

Martin secretly wished his mum was there. Not as a comforter as such, but she was wonderfully practical at times like this. She knew how to change something little just to make things slightly better. She would have found them a decent cup of tea or coffee by now, more comfortable chairs, a window to see the sun rising out of; little things that would just make the situation a little less bleak and dark. Martin himself had no idea what he should be doing, though he desperately wanted to do something for Carolyn's arrival. Unfortunately, he thought, it was one of those times that there was nothing he could do to make it any better. Carolyn finally arrived at about five in the morning. She still had her suitcase with her, and had come directly from the airport. She didn't look as if she'd had much sleep either.

"Douglas, Martin." She said. "Where's Arthur? Is he alright?"

"Not really." Martin said. "He's in Intensive Care, Carolyn, they won't let you see him."

"Yes they jolly well will!"

"No, Carolyn." Douglas took hold of her elbow and steered her forcibly into a chair. "Arthur's condition is very delicate, and they can't risk any outside germs getting in. He needs to be in a controlled environment for a few days. The doctors are acting for the best, so don't give them a hard time."

"…he really is ill then." Carolyn said heavily. "Well, what's wrong with him? People don't just stop breathing!"

"S-some sort of blood infection." Martin said. "Well, he must have had another infection first, so they're looking for that, and then they can treat it and he'll be okay, and you should know that he definitely did _not _go into septic shock!"

"Septic shock? What?"

"Smooth, Martin." Douglas snapped. He was worn out and was in no mood for Martin's overzealous reassurances that would have the opposite effect to the one intended. "Septic shock, Carolyn, is when someone's blood pressure drops so low that their organs begin to fail. It's often fatal."

"What?! But Arthur-"

"Really didn't get that far, Carolyn." Douglas said firmly. "He was just… going that way."

"Oh." Carolyn said. "So he has an infection that could have caused this, this shock thing?"

"Yes. But it won't now, we were just in time."

"But this infection was caused by another infection?"

"Yes. Something in his chest, at a guess. They're looking for it."

"Well." Carolyn said, after a long pause. "I did tell you that he didn't do things by halves, didn't I? I suppose I ought to go and speak to the doctor."

"I'll take you to his office." Martin volunteered, taking her case for her, eager to be helpful and make up for earlier. "He knows you're coming. Um, um, w-will Gordon be coming?"

"What? No!"

"Carolyn… you do need to call him."

"I don't see why." Carolyn folded her arms stubbornly. "He wouldn't want to be here, Arthur wouldn't want him here and I _definitely _do not want him here. He hasn't been a part of Arthur's life for the best part of sixteen years, this is none of his business. Anyway, have you forgotten what happened the last time we saw him? He tried to steal our plane, strand us in St Petersburg and threw Arthur's present back in his face! I am not calling him!"

"I know, I know." Martin said. "Believe me, he's not my favourite person either, but he _is _Arthur's dad and I think when there's a chance Arthur might… well, he ought to know."

"…I will think about it." Carolyn said, and Martin dropped the subject. Carolyn went in to see Doctor Covas, who wasn't able to give her much more information than her pilots had already. They still didn't know what was wrong with Arthur and were running tests, but they were confident of having an answer within the next twelve hours or so. He was reluctant to rate Arthur's chances of survival, explaining how it would very much depend on whether they found the original infection and what it was, but finally Carolyn pinned him down to around a 70 percent chance of survival, assuming that they found the problem. If not, the chances were lower. That meant that the chances of him dying were thirty percent or higher. Carolyn did not at all like the sound of that. She decided she would not share it with her pilots. However, it did resign her to the idea that she should call Gordon; never a pleasant experience.

"Hiya, Carolyn." Gordon picked up after a few rings. "What a surprise to hear from you. What is it this time? Did you stir fry a goose with my plane again?"

"No we did not." Carolyn replied. "_My _plane is absolutely fine and in perfect health. I am calling you because unfortunately the same cannot be said for _my _son."

"What? Arthur? What's wrong with him?"

"Well, you remember that time when he was eleven years old and he shyly showed you his exam results that he had worked his little socks off to achieve and you told him they were useless and when he said it had just been too difficult you told him that for an idiot like him breathing was too difficult?" Carolyn asked sweetly. "Well, it seems you were correct."

"What? What are you talking about? Is he alright?"

"No, Gordon, he is not alright." Carolyn said. "I'm calling you from a hospital in Malaga, Spain, because a few hours ago Martin discovered Arthur almost suffocating in his hotel room and had him rushed to hospital, where they have put him into intensive care in order to try and keep him alive long enough to find out what's wrong with him and are currently rating his chances of survival somewhere around seventy percent." Gordon didn't say anything, so she ploughed on. "I'm not telling you this because I want you to come here or because I want you to be involved or even to guilt you, I'm telling you this because… well because you are, unfortunately, his father and I thought you ought to know."

"Should I come?"

"That is entirely up to you."

"No, I mean…" Gordon hesitated. "Is there anything I can help with?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Would it make any difference to him if I was there?"

"He's unconscious, so no."

"In that case, I'll stay out of your way." Gordon said. "But… keep me posted, Carolyn. Any change."

"Yes, alright."

"And I'll wire you some money. Get him some decent doctors, not these overworked undertrained nuisances that'll abandon him to have a siesta."

"I don't want your money!"

"That's not what you said during the divorce." Gordon replied without hesitation. "And it's not for you, it's for Arthur. If you don't want it, then don't use it, but don't come crying to me when he dies because of your pride."

"Fine." Carolyn snapped. She wouldn't thank him. She refused to thank him for this act of charity that was still a lot less than he should have been doing. And she would only use his money if Arthur _really _needed it. She would rather cut off her hands than accept hand outs unnecessarily.

"Call me again tomorrow." Gordon commanded, and hung up. Furious, Carolyn went to find the other two.

"Is he coming?" Martin asked.

"No, Martin, of course he isn't."

"What?! But Arthur, his son, his _only _son is-!"

"I know, Martin!" She couldn't bear to hear it said again. "I've told you before, you think far too well of people who don't deserve it. Now then, the two of you may as well go back to the hotel and get some sleep. There's nothing more you can do here and to be quite honest, Martin, you look like you've been hit by a train and Douglas you look like you fell out of one. Besides, I want you both to be well rested and in hours to fly home tomorrow." She checked her watch. "Well, tonight I suppose."

"What? We can't just leave you. And what about Arthur?" Martin looked horrified.

"Arthur is in the best possible hands and I will be fine. Besides, MJN can't keep paying for extra nights in charming hotels. I'll keep you both well informed, so you can just go home. Douglas you can go and visit your daughter, Martin, go to the air museum or whatever it is that passes for fun in your odd little world and consider your duty done."

"Carolyn, I…" Martin swallowed and tried again. "I… I wanted to apologise. Douglas had been with Arthur all day, I was supposed to be keeping an eye on him during the night but I didn't, and if I hadn't been swanning off around some Spanish vineyard-"

"Martin, if I had been there I would have been swanning with you. You both did much more than I'd have any right to expect, so stop assuming it's all your fault because it's boring and wrong." Carolyn said. She wanted desperately to be alone. "Now go on, get out of my sight, both of you! Leave me Arthur's room key for the hotel, I'm sure the manager won't mind my using it tonight. Good, now go! Go on! Thank you for your help, good night!"

When the pilots had at last been successfully shooed away, Carolyn finally relaxed her façade, slumping into a chair. This was all a little much. She couldn't get that number thirty out of her mind. Someone had turned up the gravity in her world and everything seemed heavier, slower, more serious. She wondered if it was always like this without Arthur or if it was just because he was ill. She went down to the ICU and spoke to the nurse on duty there, who thankfully had enough English to understand. There was a window into the unit that allowed those in the corridor to look in, but because it was still early, a blind had been let down over it. Still, a nurse pressed a buzzer, talked to someone, and then waved Carolyn over to the window.

Carolyn wanted that blind to go up more than she had ever wanted anything in her life; but she also wanted it to stay where it was. Before she had decided, someone inside the room had let the blind up, in a ridiculous polythene suit, with hood and mask, like they were dealing with radiation. They smiled at Carolyn- she thought they smiled, their eyes seemed to smile- and drew back the curtain around the bed that stood there.

It was Arthur, of course, although she barely recognised him. He looked pale and pinched, and his hair was tousled. He was hooked up to machines for measuring heart rate, blood pressure and others that Carolyn had no idea what they did; IV bags hung above him like some kind of bizarre fruit. The mask was the worst. It obscured his face, made him look unnatural, and knowing that he wouldn't be able to breathe without it was unthinkable. Carolyn drew a sharp intake of breath without meaning to. She did something without thinking that Arthur was fighting to do every second. The thought made her brain freeze.

"Oh, goodness." A voice said beside her, an annoyingly, endearingly familiar voice. "He looks in a bad way. But all those machines are _doing _things, you know. He'll be alright."

It was Herc, of course. Of course, she should have known it was useless telling him not to come, especially when he had used the word 'promise'. Of course he wouldn't take no for an answer and would get on the plane after hers. Of course he would. That was just the way Herc was. Completely reliable.

To her great surprise and shame, Carolyn couldn't find anything to say. The nurse drew the curtain and the blind again and they were cut off from the room. Herc put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Carolyn let him.

ooooooooooooooo

A/N: An author's note at the end? And… it's nothing specifically about this fic, so if you want to abandon now, please do :P I don't really like advertising other fics in my author's notes, especially my own, especially my own that aren't written yet. Even so, my next fic after this is mapped out in my mind already, but I don't know whether it would be better to just crack on and finish this (we're about half way through) or to divide my time between this one and the new idea I have. For fear of distraction, I suspect it'll be the former, but I finished a draft of the prologue and I'm pretty excited about it, so I thought I'd just share a few lines here… if you have time, let me know what you think!

"_Hello?"_

_ "Martin! It's Simon. Do you have time to chat?"_

_ "Yes sir, the house is secure. Everyone's out."_

_ "Oh, bravo. Well then, I have good news for you, chap. It's over. It's time to pull out. It was the Captain up in the Orkney Isles. We got him, the Scots have all the evidence, the rest is just clean up. Which means you can finally get home." _

_ "Yes sir! Thank you, sir. When?" _

_ "Tonight, if we can manage it."_

_ "Oh…" _

_ "Is that a problem?" _

_ "No sir, it's just very sudden."_

_ "Well, DCI Banks and I are on our way over now. We'll debrief you and we can get things moving."_

_ "Alright, I'll get packing." _

_ "Sorry, Martin, but it's a negatori on the packing. You can't take anything with you. We're not exactly going down the traditional route on this..."_

That's all for now :)


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Another long chapter, mostly because I wanted something to happen. I fully admit I was rushing the second half of this because I'm going to have so little time to write in the next few weeks I wanted to get this chapter out as soon as possible. It's now getting on for midnight, so please forgive the scrappy quality… Updates are probably going to become less frequent I'm afraid but please be assured I'll get them out as quick as I can :)

Chapter Eight

Douglas and Martin were eating breakfast in silence. Actually, given that it was almost noon, lunch might have been the more appropriate term. Martin was deep in thought, frowning in concentration. Douglas let him ruminate, thinking he probably didn't want know. Finally, however, Martin spoke.

"Douglas, do you think-"

"Martin." Douglas interrupted. "If you're still worrying about the fact you didn't get there sooner, then don't. You did magnificently with the ambulance, you know. If it had been me, it would have had to wait for me to explain to the hotel manager so he could make the call and who knows how much worse those minutes could have made things. I didn't know you spoke that much Spanish."

"Neither did I." Martin smiled slightly and Douglas realised he had complimented him for no good reason. "It wasn't as good as it sounded, just 'please help my friend' and things. But anyway, that's not what I was going to say. I was just thinking… well, we don't have to go home today, do we?"

"I feel the same way," Douglas admitted, "But I don't see what else we can do. Carolyn was pretty clear that she didn't want us here and couldn't pay for the hotel much longer anyway."

"I know, but… I was thinking, I _do _have a bit of emergency money saved, in case the van breaks down and things, so if we were to move to a cheaper hotel, maybe one actually in Malaga and close to the hospital, it would probably be alright for a bit."

"Mm." Douglas said. "Well, I've already missed my daughter and a few days won't set me back much. What the heck, we can call it a holiday."

"Good." Martin relaxed. "I just don't like the idea of leaving when Arthur's in such a state. I wonder if they know what's wrong with him yet…"

Douglas didn't have an answer to that and ate his brunch instead. As he did, he saw a familiar face over Martin's shoulder.

"Herc!"

At the sound of his name Herc turned and ceased his search for a free table, coming over to join them. They both seemed surprised to see him.

"Did you come with Carolyn?" Douglas asked. "She didn't tell us."

"That's because she didn't know I was coming." Herc replied, sitting down and smiling in greeting. "In fact she expressly forbade my coming, so I had to do it in secret. I got to the hospital just after you left."

"Well, I'm sure she's glad you're here really." Martin said. "I-is she on her way down or…?"

"I've really no idea, Martin. She is stubbornly refusing to admit that she's glad I'm here and now she isn't speaking to me."

"Oh, trouble in paradise is it? But she'll come round." Douglas said. "She's just worried about Arthur."

"I know. We all are." Herc answered. It was true, he was worried enough about Arthur and now he was worried about Carolyn too. He was starting to wish he had children of his own, if only to be able to understand a little better what Carolyn was going through, but he was well aware that the time had well and truly passed for such a thing to happen to him. He regretted it now, but when he was a younger man, he had never wanted children. It wasn't that he didn't like babies; in fact, he loved them, but he had never wanted the responsibility of having his own, which was probably the cause of the breakdowns of his first two marriages. He had come up with all sorts of reasons and excuses at the time, but looking back with more honest eyes, it was probably that he was a bit jealous. He had seen it happen to friends of his; where mothers loved their children more than they loved their partners. Herc was a romanticist and he had loved all four of his wives, really loved them- still did, in some small, painful ways. He had always been so worried about anything coming between them that he had probably caused it to happen. He regretted it now of course, if he had his time again he would have had his own children. There was Arthur, he supposed, but Herc couldn't see him as a son; he'd come into Arthur and Carolyn's lives far too late for that. He was friendly with the younger man, fond of him, but he didn't think he could really understand how Carolyn was feeling.

Douglas might have been in a better position to understand, the only other one there who actually had children. In fact, Herc had been with him when his daughter was born, though he wasn't sure whether Douglas remembered. They had been two men of roughly the same age and rank in the same airline at the same time and naturally had been friends of a kind, though it was friendship in the variety of a testosterone-fuelled rivalry, the kind that dominated the pilot's lounge. Being as they were both captains at around the same time (Douglas had been promoted mere weeks before him) it wasn't that often they had flown together, except on particularly long flights where one of them would be relief for the other. It was on such a flight, going through the night to Indonesia, that Douglas had received the phone call to tell him his by then ex-wife had gone into labour.

If Douglas had been worried he hadn't shown it, even though the baby had been two weeks premature. He was a little miffed that he was going to miss the birth of his first born, but at the time they had been a good way over Europe and he knew there was no way they would be allowed to divert or go back and even if they'd tried he wouldn't have made it. Herc and his first officer had been operating at the time, so Douglas had simply gone back to sleep, grumbling. Ten hours later Herc had called him back to the flight deck to answer the Sat Com, where he watched as Douglas had been informed that he was now the father of a healthy baby girl.

Herc had been pleased for him, delighted, even. On seeing how happy Douglas looked, he had even wondered briefly about rethinking his stance on children but no, he concluded, it wasn't for him. So he had announced the happy news over the intercom by way of congratulations and when they landed in Delhi for a quick refuel he overlooked official protocol and joined the entire crew in the nearest bar to wet the baby's head, as they used to say in the old days. As far as he could tell, every single one of them bought Douglas a drink and he downed them all, because in the space of three hours his fellow captain got completely plastered. It was then that Douglas had dramatically announced that he was going to quit drinking for the sake of his daughter, though Herc doubted he would remember it. He'd been surprised when, the next day, Douglas had made the resolution again while sober- hung over, but sober- and actually stuck to it. In the meantime, Herc was very glad that he himself had only had a couple, because he ended up doing the entire thirty hour flight solo, taking over the second leg that Douglas should have done, though he doubted Douglas remembered that, either. Still, his friend was happy, that was the main thing. That and the fact Douglas finally owed him a favour, rather than the other way around.

Quitting the drink, however, was not as easy as Douglas liked to pretend and Herc had been able to see the strain. He no longer joined them for sociable drinks and their contact became less and less. Herc had tried, but even when he did bump into him, Douglas was for a time so tetchy and irritable that being around him was no fun at all. It wasn't deliberate, and they still got on well enough, but they began to lose touch more and more. Things came rather to a head when they both fell for the same member of the cabin crew, a stewardess a few years younger than them who had newly joined the company. Her name was Camilla, and she was intoxicating, funny and seductive and passionate; the kind of woman no man could stand up to. She knew exactly which buttons to press, and she pressed them. Both Herc and Douglas were divorced at that time, Douglas from his second marriage and Herc from his third, both of them single and free to chase this new butterfly. It became something of a race, sometimes friendly, and sometimes not quite.

Douglas thought he had won because he slept with her first, but Herc married her, which was a one up. Douglas conceded the defeat with grace- his relationship with her had been rather short lived, mostly due to someone called Helena- but always made it a point of alluding to it at every opportunity, including at the wedding reception. Herc did not appreciate it. Then Douglas had been caught making one of his little deals, the little deals he had started on to make him feel like a rogue again once he was off the drink, and got the sack. They'd lost touch, Herc had been offered a promotion at Air Caledonian, Camilla had taken a dislike to Inverness, threatened to divorce him, he'd got a transfer and they'd moved back down to the Midlands, he found out their relationship was not as exclusive as he'd thought and divorced her. A year later, he'd met Carolyn and now here he was, abruptly in the middle of Spain waiting and praying for her son to recover. It was different with Carolyn. She so openly rebuffed his attempts at romance that he never doubted her sincerity of words or feelings, the feelings were more relaxed and calm than anything he had known before. She didn't want to be impressed or swept off her feet, she just wanted- even if she wouldn't admit it- to spend time with him, with him as himself, even if all they did was argue. It made him happier than he could ever say, though he had tried, once, and Carolyn had thrown a cushion at him and told him to shut his face. He loved her, he loved her absolutely and he knew, somehow, that this was it. He had loved all his wives, but loved them in different ways, and the love for Carolyn was new too, but it was final. He was too old to keep playing this game. Whatever happened, this love was the last he would feel, and that was fine.

He just wished Carolyn wasn't hurting so much, and that he could have done something about it.

When Carolyn came down, she seemed much like her usual self. She sniffed at Herc and ate her breakfast/lunch in much the same way as she always did during a stopover, and refused to be drawn into conversation with any of them. She barely touched her food, which worried Martin and also made him feel a little guilty. He and Douglas had eaten ravenously, and she was probably just as hungry, but her appetite must have left her. Nobody commented, and she wiped her lips on a napkin and laid it aside.

"Right." She said, in her business tone. "We are all checking out today. You can drive me into Malaga where I will find a hotel closer to the hospital and then you can go back to Fitton, and take Herc with you."

"Mm, a good plan." Herc agreed. "With only one slight alteration. You can drive _us _into Malaga where _we _will find a hotel, and then the two of you can go back to Fitton _without _taking me with you."

"Hercules-" Carolyn began, but was cut off by Douglas.

"Actually, we have our own slight alteration." He said. "Martin can drive us all into Malaga, where we will all find suitable lodging, and we will fly us _all _home when Arthur has recovered."

"We don't all need to be here." Carolyn snapped. "I told you, I can't afford to pay for your hotels."

"Nor are we asking you to." Douglas replied. "The Captain and I merely decided we were long overdue a proper holiday, and, as we're already here, where better to do it than in sunny Spain? If we happen to squeeze in the odd hospital visit, well, that's just how we like to spend our leisure time."

"Oh, you and Martin are holidaying together now, are you?" Carolyn asked. "Should we be expecting a happy announcement?"

"No." Douglas said calmly as Martin choked on his coffee, or possibly on his own disgust. "You should be expecting that we are all staying for the time being, no matter what you say or how you try to dissuade us."

"I don't want you here. It's none of your business."

"It is our business and we want to be here." Herc said. "Now shut up and finish your breakfast."

"No." Carolyn said. "If you're all staying, then we need to go and find enough hotel rooms for us all, and that won't be easy without a prior booking. Come on, look lively. If you want to stay, you'll have to keep up. I want us sorted and at the hospital as soon as possible."

ooooooooooooooooo

By the time Martin tumbled into his hotel bed that night, he was too tired even to reach up and switch off the light, lying face down in the single, musty smelling pillow. It was not a very good hotel, it was the cheapest he could find. As the hire car was in his name, he was the only one insured to drive it, and he had done plenty of driving that day. First there was the drive into Malaga, which wasn't the easiest in the boiling noon sunshine and tempers that had already been frayed by stress. Once they were there, it was driving round and round trying to find a hotel without losing his way. They tried a few, but there were never more than two rooms free and they didn't want to split up unless they had to. Finally, they found one that seemed ideal, within walking distance of the hospital, with three rooms free. Unfortunately, Carolyn flatly refused to share with Herc, (even though, according to him, they had shared a room before which was more than Martin ever wanted to know about anything) so there still wasn't enough space. Eventually Martin had dropped them off to stay there while he, as the one with the car, pootled off to look for accommodation further afield. In the end, he was relieved. He could stay somewhere much cheaper without the other three to cater for, he didn't mind roughing it for a few days for Arthur's sake. He rolled onto his back with a sigh, falling into the dip in the mattress and reaching to finally turn off the light pretty much just so he didn't have to look at the damp in the corner of the ceiling. Roughing it was certainly the optimum word. The room was stuffy, stifling, even with the blankets off and the window open. He hoped it wouldn't be for too long, but it was for Arthur, so it was okay.

After the hotel hunt, Martin had paused only to put his luggage in his room and have a quick wash before he was back in the car on his way to the hospital. The car spluttered to a halt ten feet away from a petrol pump, and he was forced to go through the humiliating experience of pushing it, solo, agonisingly slowly, into the petrol station while motorists blared their horns and shouted at him. Then the exit didn't lead out to where he thought it would and he was caught in traffic by some road works before he could get back on track. By the time he reached the hospital, he was hot, sweaty, tired, dehydrated and not in the best mood.

They still weren't allowed to see Arthur, but things were apparently looking up. Doctor Covas was there again- looking like he'd had very little sleep; he was obviously putting in extra hours, for which they were grateful- and he'd told them they'd identified the cause of the original infection. Arthur had contracted Legionnaire's Disease, flu like symptoms with a persistent and dangerous cough, followed by complications and even death if untreated. It was caused by contaminated water or water vapour, from pipes and ducts, air conditioners, condensation, anywhere where vapour could become a problem. By the doctor's guess, Arthur had picked it up in one of the hotels they had stayed in, as it was easy for buildings even with the highest standards of cleanliness to get contaminated somewhere in the system. By the time Martin had arrived, the doctor had gone and Douglas was trying to work out how Arthur was the only one to catch it and Carolyn seemed to be muttering to Herc about how she should have paid for better hotels. Uncomfortable, Martin had left that to him and joined in Douglas' speculation instead. They had all stayed in the same buildings, washed in water from the same pipes- their best guess was that somewhere along the line the head of one of the showers in Arthur's room had been full of the bacteria. However, even Arthur wouldn't have been stupid enough to have showered in a filthy shower, and neither of them had had any problems with the cleanliness in their rooms in their recent hotels, so the explanation didn't quite make sense.

"It might not even have looked dirty." Martin commented. "I mean, it could have looked all shiny and clean but still been swimming in bacteria."

"Swimming!" Douglas said. "Of course! Martin, Hamburg!"

Martin realised what he meant and groaned. They caught Carolyn's attention.

"Hamburg? What about Hamburg?"

"When we were in Hamburg, we found out the hotel had a little swimming pool." Martin said, as calmly as he could. "It was closed because they'd had a fire in the changing rooms and hadn't refurbished them just yet."

"Only Arthur, being Arthur, made friends with one of the bell boys as is his way, and persuaded him to open it up, especially for him." Douglas said. "He even tried to persuade us to join him, but we declined."

"Good thing we did." Martin said grimly. "We would all have been down with it. How long do you think the water had been stagnating in there?"

"A fortnight at least I should think, if the pumps burnt out with the rooms." Douglas said.

"Idiot boy." Carolyn said. Herc put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and then went to find the doctor to tell him the new information. The hospital would need to make sure the hotel was informed and the pool water tested. After that, they went round to see Arthur.

It was strange, looking through the window at him and not being allowed to go in. It was a creepy feeling that made Martin shiver, observing his friend like he was an animal in a zoo. Doctor Covas had assured them that now he was on the correct antibiotics, they would see vast improvements; but if this was a vast improvement Martin dreaded to think what Arthur had looked like before. Beneath the wires and the machines and the IV drips, the only way to even be sure that Arthur was alive was the pulses on the heart monitor. They had only looked in for a minute before they signalled the suited nurse to shut the curtains round his bed again. It was too horrible.

They went for dinner. More traffic. Rush hour this time. Inching through the traffic, taking the others back to their hotel. A phone call from the hospital to say Arthur had taken a turn for the worse. Heading back there, everyone getting frustrated with him as if he could somehow clear all the traffic blocking their way by _driving better_, some slightly illegal turns and overtaking in an attempt to get there faster and getting stopped by the police, Carolyn saying she would never, ever, forgive him and he was fired. Trying to explain the situation in his subpar Spanish. The others being allowed to leave and hail down a taxi while he paid a fine he couldn't afford and filled out paperwork as best he could, the evening sun reflecting off the bonnet and burning his arm as he leant on the roof. Finally being allowed to go and finding the roads had cleared considerably, running into the hospital- only to find it had been something of a false alarm. Arthur's breathing had been more laboured for a good half an hour, but an extra injection of steroids to loosen his airways had soon fixed the problem. Doctor Covas was very apologetic on behalf of the junior colleague that had called them and caused all the alarm, and did his best to reassure them, but Carolyn was still worried and they all ended up staying at the hospital half the night. Finally, Martin had had driven back to his own hotel, sure it had been one of the worst days of his life.

It was lonely, on his own in this hotel, knowing the others were together on the other side of town.

He wondered if this was how Arthur felt, alone in the hospital, and had unpacked something into every drawer before he got changed and collapsed onto the bed. Normally the disorganisation would have driven him mad- he'd had to split some pairs of socks- but he had it on good authority that it just didn't feel like home otherwise.

ooooooooooooooooo

Three days passed in much the same manner. They would loiter around the hospital, waiting for something to happen, and nothing would. Doctor Covas and the other staff assured them that Arthur was recovering, that the treatment was working, that he was getting stronger- but they would look through the window, and he would still look the same. Arthur, yet far too still and pale to be their Arthur.

But the fourth day. The fourth day, Martin thought, more than made up for the nights spent in a stuffy, hot, hotel room where the midges got in and with damp on the ceiling and a shower he now hardly dared to use. It made up for the money and the driving and the stress. The doctors had said they expected Arthur to regain consciousness soon, but they had said that two days before, none of them had really expected it to happen; but it did, while they were there.

Perhaps it was the extra light as his curtains were pulled back to let them see him. It fell on his face and his eyes crinkled, blinked, and opened.

None of them had dared say anything.

He had glanced around in confusion, but then his eyes settled on them, met Carolyn's. He seemed like he was smiling. And slowly, painfully, a hand came out from under the covers, and his fingers flexed gently in their direction.

He was waving, Martin realised, or doing his best to.

Carolyn wiped her eyes. She may even have shed a tear or two. Everyone politely pretended not to notice, too busy smiling and waving back.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: This is the final chapter! Sorry it's been so long coming but this week has been a bit crazy for me and I wanted to make sure it was right. I also had to decide about whether to end here or to carry on with what happened in England, but in the end I didn't have enough ideas to sustain the story and I think this makes for a better ending. Thanks to everyone who has read and I hope you enjoyed!

Chapter Nine

Arthur woke up slowly. He liked waking up slowly, in those moments when you were still pleasantly sleepy but you knew you were about to open your eyes to a bright new day. It was much nicer than waking up to a buzzing alarm that was like being dropped from a great height into consciousness. Today there was an alarm, but it was different to usual, the bleeping was slower, more rhythmic and a lot quieter. It was almost soothing, luring him from a doze back into sleep.

He could tell, somewhere in the bleary corners of his mind, that it was taking him much longer than usual to wake up, but he wasn't awake enough to do anything about it. Sometimes he was so almost awake that he thought he could hear voices or music, but he could never be sure if it was out in the world or coming from his dreams. He could see golden sunlight through his eyelids, perhaps the music was coming from that. It was very pleasant.

_I should open my eyes though_, he thought, eventually, and after a while- he may have nodded off again first- he did.

The ceiling was unfamiliar, but he was used to that. It always took him a few minutes when he woke up to work out where he was, when they were on trips. This time it wasn't coming to him, though. He had a hazy memory of his mum saying something about an emergency trip to Spain, but he couldn't remember actually going, though he had the sort of feeling that he had. Maybe he was still dreaming after all. The bleeping hadn't stopped, and there was a funny pressure around his nose and mouth, sort of like when he had strawberries and his lips swelled up, but not quite like that either. He wondered what it was, but felt too vague and sleepy to try and find out. It was warm in this bed, wherever it was, and a lot softer and less lumpy than the usual hotel beds, though it was a bit weird that it was bent so that he was almost upright. He thought maybe he'd go back to sleep for a bit, and maybe when he woke up he'd be awake enough to know what was going on.

There was someone bustling about in the room though, pinning back some curtains. They were in a full radiation suit, like he was radioactive. Arthur wondered if he was radioactive and if that meant he had superpowers now. He wouldn't mind having superpowers, depending on what they were. He wouldn't want boring ones, or ones that lots of people had, or ones that would be hard to hide. He didn't think he'd be very good at keeping up a secret identity anyway.

There was a window in front of him, though. It caught his attention suddenly and he wondered how he'd missed it, because the whole wall was made of glass and that was obviously what the curtains were for. It was a bit like being at an aquarium, except instead of looking in at the fish, he was looking in at his mum and Herc and Douglas and Martin. He wondered what they were doing in there without him, he would have loved to have had a go inside an aquarium, except that the one they were in just sort of looked like a corridor and he was probably definitely dreaming anyway, especially as they were just standing there and not coming out to see him. Perhaps they hadn't seen him, even though they were looking right at him. He dragged a hand out from under the blankets- it felt like a really heavy blanket, or like he was the one who was underwater, his movements slow and clumsy- and waved.

They were obviously having fun out there because they all looked very excited and waved back. All except his mum. She turned the other way quickly and rubbed her face like she was crying, and when she turned back to face the window and wave with the others, her eyes were still wet, like she really _was _crying. But it was his mum, she never cried, except she was, a bit, or at least, she looked like she wanted to. Something was wrong.

Arthur wished he had woken up sooner, unless this was a dream, in which case he wished he would wake up now. Either way, he had to go and help his mum, now. He wasn't going to lie in bed when she was upset.

Except the blanket really was heavy. It was hard to get out from underneath it. The floor seemed very far away and his legs were all wobbly. The bleeping was going crazy now. Arthur realised he was _tied _to the bed; no, not to the bed, to all sorts of odd machines like-

This was a hospital, he realised suddenly. He was in hospital. Why was he in hospital and why was his mum crying and why weren't they coming in to see him and why wouldn't his legs work?

The person in the radiation suit came and pulled him up from the floor and back towards the bed saying things he couldn't understand. Arthur struggled, but it wasn't enough for them to even notice. The bleeping was going haywire; it was probably his pulse. He couldn't seem to catch his breath even with the plastic mask- he realised it was a plastic mask, now, one of those breathing thingies- and his chest hurt. He wondered if he was having a heart attack. Could people have heart attacks when they were only just a little bit past thirty?

They shut the curtains again, and he couldn't see his mum anymore.

oooooooooo

"Mr Shappey? Arthur? Can you hear me? Please wake up."

Arthur didn't recognise the voice, but he had always been the obliging sort, so he forced his eyes open. It was hard not to go back to sleep, but he did his best- it would be rude to sleep in front of this man he didn't know. Besides, he seemed nice. He had a smiley sort of face and tanned skin, like he had just got back from holiday, and people were always happy then.

"Hello." Arthur said, blearily. His voice was very raspy and his throat hurt, so it didn't even really sound that much like a word, but the man seemed to understand.

"Hello, Arthur." He said. "How are you feeling? My name is Doctor Covas. You are in the Hospital Doctor Pascual in Malaga, Spain. You have been very ill, but you are getting better. I am responsible for your care."

"You aren't wearing a space suit." Arthur said, trying to catch his breath. He wasn't sure when talking had become so hard. He was really quite sleepy now.

"You must rest, try not to speak." Doctor Covas said. "You were very ill when you first came to us and we could not risk any outside germs at all reaching you. Now, although you perhaps do not feel it, you are much stronger. The antibiotics are taking hold and we no longer need to take such precautions. You are not contagious and you can rest assured that the suits were for your benefit, not for ours."

"Don't worry, it's okay." Arthur mumbled, giving in and letting his eyes close. "I promise I'll only use my powers for good."

If the doctor replied, Arthur didn't hear it, going back to sleep with a sigh.

oooooooooo

After two more days in intensive care, in which Arthur got progressively less tired and more vocal about being fine and wanting to see his mum and his friends, he was finally moved into a general ward. His mum came in first.

"Hello, Arthur." She said. "Well, you've really done it this time, haven't you? We've had to stay an extra week, you certainly know how to be dramatic."

"Sorry mum." Arthur said. His voice was still scratchy, and he couldn't be loud, and it was hard to get his breath back after speaking when there was still some coughs caught in his chest; but he was well enough, and the doctors had left an oxygen supply there in case he needed it. He didn't mind his mum's grumbling. He knew it was just because she didn't know how else to say she was worried. "I didn't think you were on this trip."

"I wasn't, silly boy. I came because you were ill; Herc's here too, and Martin and Douglas. We've all been waiting for you to get better."

"Sorry mum." He said again. "But I am much better now! The doctor said-"

"The doctor has said you will need a few more weeks in hospital, and you will be doing what the doctor tells you." She said with a fierce look. She knew Arthur didn't like hospitals or medicines or lying still, but she didn't know on this occasion that he had felt ill enough that he would rather have the medicine, or that he would if it meant she wasn't worried and crying again. Arthur decided not to tell her. "But… I am glad you're alright." She said, finally. "Don't you dare do that to me again."

Arthur would have got up and hugged her, but getting up wasn't his speciality right now and anyway, his mum wasn't a very huggy person. So instead he promised he wouldn't and squeezed her hand and she got embarrassed and took it away. He smiled at her instead.

"Right. The others are waiting to see you, but if you aren't well enough it can wait until tomorrow?"

"No, I'm fine!" Arthur said eagerly. Too eagerly- it started him coughing again. He carried on desperately, trying to reassure her. "I'm- fine- really! I'm… okay, I… don't even…!"

"Yes, yes, alright!" She snapped. "Use the air if you need it, Arthur."

"No- I'm okay- I… don't… need-"

"Yes, you do." She said, and pressed it into his hand. "Now shut up and do it yourself or so help me I will stand here and force it onto your face."

Arthur did it himself. After a moment the need to cough faded, and then his breathing settled. He took the mask away cautiously.

"Good boy." His mum said, as if he was still six. "Alright, I will fetch the others, but you mustn't get too excited and make yourself worse."

"I won't mum."

She went to call the others and they all came back, hurrying down the ward to gather at his bedside. Somehow, the sight made Arthur's chest, tight as it was, fill with a kind of warm, bubbling feeling. He knew he shouldn't be glad they had been worried, worried enough to camp out in a Spanish hospital. He knew he should feel guilty, and he did, but it was nice, too, to know he had friends that cared about him that much. He hadn't forgotten- though it was a bit hard to remember- Douglas rearranging the furniture in his room at the hotel and moving the mattress so he wouldn't fall off it and then staying with him all day telling him stories to try and take his mind off things; and his Skipper driving miles around Spain to find him pork scratchings and pain killers and fresh pyjamas. It was a happy feeling to know that you were just as important to someone as they were to you. Sometimes, when he had done something stupid and they got frustrated with him, or he couldn't keep up with a word game, or he didn't understand what was going on, he felt a bit lonely or left out; but he had always known they didn't mean it really. They were his friends, and they _really _cared about him, even though he was a clot. That was something that would never stop being special to him.

He suddenly understood why his mum had almost cried when she saw him wake up, because he felt like he could cry now too, because the world was an even more brilliant place than he'd thought.

"Hello, Arthur, you look terrible." Douglas said when they reached him, but he was smiling. "Am I to trust your taste for the dramatic has been suitably indulged for the time being and that we can return to our usual monotonous existence?"

"Yes." Arthur replied, which was what he usually said when he didn't entirely get what Douglas meant.

"Ignore him, Arthur." Herc sighed. "How are you feeling? You had us worried for a while there. I'm very glad you're alright."

"Thanks, Herc."

"Arthur…" Martin shoved his way forward, but then didn't seem to know what to say. "I…" He cleared his throat. "It's good to see you." Then, suddenly, awkwardly, he lurched forward and hugged Arthur round the neck.

Arthur was surprised. He had never seen his Skipper hug anyone, least of all him. Perhaps that was why Martin wasn't very good at it and was holding onto him all wrong and pulled away, embarrassed, before Arthur had chance to hug him back. Arthur found he didn't really know what to say.

"Aww, Skip." He said, finally, really fighting hard not to cry now. "It's alright. I'm okay, really."

Martin saw the look in his eyes, though. "What is it?!" He asked in alarm. "Oh, no, did I hurt you?! I'm sorry, I didn't realise-"

"No, I'm fine." Arthur said, blinking away the water and smiling. "It's just… it's just so brilliant to have such good friends."

"Oh." Martin said. "Well… you're welcome."

"Good grief." Carolyn interrupted. "Everyone please stop this outpouring of unprecedented emotion before I vomit. Arthur is _fine_. A year or so of recovery and he'll be back on board Gerti and fit as a fiddle."

"A year?!" Arthur yelped. He definitely did not want to be ill for a _year_. He couldn't even imagine it. That would mean he would have to be ill on his birthday and on Christmas and on everyone else's birthdays and at Easter. "I can't be ill for a year! I'm already getting better!"

His body betrayed him and he started coughing again. Carolyn rubbed his back.

"And you will improve every day." She said, and it sounded almost like an order. "Never fear, dear-heart, he said at this rate, as long as you keep taking your medicine, you can be back at work in a few weeks. I just mean it may be a year before you're quite as strong and energetic as you were. Although," she added as mutter. "Goodness only knows, that could prove to be a blessing."

"Don't worry, Carolyn." Martin said. "We'll make sure he doesn't overdo it."

"Yes, and while we're about it, we'll stop the tide from turning." Douglas muttered.

oooooooooo

"But Douglas and Martin are allowed to go in Gerti!"

"Yes, Arthur, because they're the ones _flying _it. They do not need to be transported in a bed surrounded by specialist equipment and carers."

"I don't need to either, I'll be fine! I could just lie down in one of the seats and go to sleep there! It would be fine!"

Carolyn was getting a headache. She couldn't help but think the doctor's estimate of a year for recovery was a bit exaggerated. Three days after his release from intensive care, Arthur seemed much improved. His ability to argue had certainly made a full recovery. Doctor Covas had decided Arthur was well enough to be transferred to a hospital in England, which was a great relief to them all. The problem was Arthur's inability to see why he had to go aboard a commercial flight with a company that regularly flew the hospital's patients rather than on board his beloved Gerti.

"Arthur, no, it would not be fine. If you had gotten ill in England in the first place you wouldn't have been leaving the hospital at all. We are going back on a plane in which there is room for a bed and you won't be rattled to pieces, along with however many medical staff Doctor Covas deems necessary for the journey. You are going to do exactly as you're told, and that is final."

Arthur huffed and pouted but didn't argue. There were some things you just couldn't argue with his mum about, and being ill was one of them.

He remembered when he was a kid and he got sick, he had tried so hard to hide it. He had been worried about his father finding out and making him eat oranges again; worried that he would stand there and tell him he was too much of an idiot to even manage catching a cold and laugh. His mum had still noticed though and ordered him back to bed, she had told him she would deal with his father if it came to it, and she also told him he wasn't an idiot. Arthur had told her that he _was _an idiot because he couldn't do anything, and he still remembered what his mum had said:

"Don't listen to him, Arthur, there is _plenty _you can do. Now, a lot of people might try to be kind and tell you that you can do anything if you put your mind to it, but don't listen to them either. _No-one _can do anything and everything. Not your father, not even me. I'm your mother and you listen to me. There will probably be a lot of things that you can't do, no matter how hard you try, and there will be others that you'll do but won't be able to do very well, and there will be other things that you are superb at and that's just fine. I want you to be fine with it as well, Arthur, because I am. Whatever patterns you fall into, it's fine. Just be good at whatever you're good at, be ill if you're ill and don't worry about the rest, or what your dad says."

It was a long speech, but he remembered it word for word and always did when he was ill or when he found it hard to do things. Once, he had told one of his girlfriends about it and she had said his mum was cruel for not encouraging him to surpass himself and go outside his boundaries, but Arthur had always thought it was better. He didn't have to be brilliant for his mum to think he was brilliant, and that was something that made him very happy. When he was a kid she had sat by him on the settee and watched cartoons and rubbed his back when he was ill, and now he was grown up she had come all the way to Spain to come and see him at the hospital and look after him and see him safely home, and she never, ever, called him an idiot. That was enough for him.

Arthur still didn't see why he couldn't go home on Gerti, but he knew this was one of those times that he just had to do as his mother had told him and put up with it. Anyway, if it meant he'd get better and back on board sooner, he'd do almost anything. His friends had shown him just how important he was to them and even if he had to spend the rest of his life doing it, he wanted to show them just how important they were to him.


End file.
